


Hilarity Ensues!

by sporksoma



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Act 3, Adult Situations, Angst, Camping trips, Chateau Haine, F/F, F/M, Farce, Humor, Miscommunication, Multi, Pining, Romance, Satire, Sexual Frustration, accidentally all the mushrooms, accidentally the responsibility, drinking heavily, general stupidity, it's a matter of pride, pop culture references, squirrelly action, where's all the alcohol gone?, yackety sax
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-11-04 15:54:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 49,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10994142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sporksoma/pseuds/sporksoma
Summary: A satirical take on DA2 Act 3's events, including a trip to Chateau Haine and the events of Legacy.  A slow-burn WiP.So, Fenris and Hawke have reconciled, except Fenris can't get "alone" time with Hawke.  Cue frustration and getting advice.  Does Fenris take the advice, or does he continue on as he's been doing?





	1. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris was expecting something a little more heated and a little less confusing.

Fenris could hardly believe his luck.  A day ago, and he was single, with a living nightmare of a master with legal claim on his actual person.  Today, Danarius was dead at his (and Hawke’s and Varric’s, and Isabela’s, and, yes, the abomination’s) hands AND Hawke forgave him the horrible mistake he had made three years ago and… well, he wasn’t sure how to define their relationship based on the last half hour, but he was fairly certain it wasn’t “just friends” now, at least, not “just friends” on _both_ of their parts, anymore, because no one else he was “just friends” with kissed him like that (and Isabela’s wanting to notwithstanding.)

Oh, how his luck had _changed_!

Her lips were so soft, and she tasted like apples, just like she had before.  His hands tangled in her hair, not entirely comfortably for her because of the gauntlets he still wore, but she was _his_ and _his_ and _HIS_ and… she was pulling away from him, her normally pale cheeks colored crimson, her eyes anywhere but on his face.  
   

“I… I’m glad we had this talk,” she said in a rush.  Hawke placed her hands on his breastplate in an obvious ploy to keep them separate, so Fenris untangled his gauntlets and respected her space.  
    

“Is something wrong?” he asked, after a moment.  If anything, the color flushed higher, to her hairline, and she bit her bottom lip (most enticingly, although he was already in quite the mood to find most things about her especially enticing) before pasting on an obviously fake smile.  Hawke’s smiles were usually bright, and friendly, and she smiled easily and often (something that had him attracted to her, just physically, initially, when he still held a lot of suspicion over her being a mage; even that hadn’t been enough for him to deny that she was a beautifully attractive woman) but this smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“Gotta get home,” she said, stepping away quickly and letting her arms drop.  “And do… home… things.”

“I was hoping we could spend some time together.”  It was the closest he could get, at the moment, to asking her to stay the night.  Too many years ingrained into him the need to never express that desire to her, never let her know how many times he wanted to show up at her door and beg her to take him back, to kiss him and hold him as she had done that very first time.  He would have been happy for her to stay, or to invite him over, to come home with her; it had been _three years_ , after all, and Fenris was quite (finally) ready to take their relationship to the next level.  Or any level at all, so long as that level involved the bed, or the floor, or, in one particularly interesting fantasy of his, the bathtub.

“Not tonight, Fenris.”  _Ouch_.  The words.  The tone.  He forced a smile onto his own face, although his chest felt tight and his stomach felt sick.

“Another time, then.  I will see you tomorrow?”  Only long practice kept the hope and longing out of his voice.  Slaves did not hope; slaves did not want.

“Yes!  Absolutely!  We have a job to do, after all.”  Her smile changed into something more genuine, and she gave him a quick wave before slipping out of his mansion.

Well then.  Perhaps his luck had not changed so much, after all.

He was pacing well after she had gone, hands clasped behind him, trying to discern where he went wrong.  Perhaps he needed to bathe?  It was Kirkwall, after all; none of them smelled too great, except for Hawke, who always smelled of apples and fresh soap.  Perhaps Hawke was picky. Although that didn’t seem to fit with the Hawke he knew.

Perhaps she was hungry?  Fenris kept little in his mansion to eat, so perhaps she rushed home because she needed to eat something.  That was a little more likely, although she would usually invite him to come eat with her if she were going home to eat dinner.  She invited all her friends to come eat with her; it was something Hawke just did.

Maybe she was playing coy, or she was earnestly shy.  It _had_ been three years since they were last together, although they could hardly have been called a “couple” back then, no matter what.  If she were shy, he would have to help her work through her shyness with him, although Fenris wasn’t much better in that respect.  What he could remember of their one night together (and oh boy, what _couldn’t_ he remember from that one night, let me tell you!) she was rather shy, so perhaps that was it.  Perhaps he should stop worrying and stop pacing.  Perhaps he should go talk to her?

And that was when he knew he was lost: Fenris could no more go and talk to Hawke about this issue than he could go and talk to… to…. Well, Varric, or, um, _anyone_ else, really.  But he wanted to know what he had done to drive Hawke away, and he wanted to know what he needed to do in order to fix it. 

Fenris stopped his pacing and settled on the bench by the fireplace, staring at his gauntlets reflecting the firelight.  He would figure out what happened, he would figure out what he did or said that was wrong, and he would try to fix it, fix this thing between himself and Hawke.  He had made great strides today, in admitting that he wanted to be with her, wanted a future with her.

He spared a vague thought for Danarius, dead and disposed of, and his sister, Varania, who knows where, allowed her freedom only because Hawke had asked it of him.  But that was a passing thought; Danarius was no longer worth thinking of, and Varania was nothing to him, now. 

With a sigh, he settled himself more comfortably on the bench and stared into the fire, lost in thought and trying to figure out what he needed to do to make Hawke happy.

* * *

It felt like “not tonight, Fenris,” was the new mantra he lived with.  At this point, he simply wanted dinner with her, a simple kiss, a conversation that didn’t take place between killing people and trekking all over the Wounded Coast and the alleys of Kirkwall, a moment where it didn’t smell of blood and viscera and they didn’t have their blood hot from battle. 

He had _tried_ talking with her, outside of battle, but it seemed like the world was conspiring against him in that regard.  If someone didn’t interrupt, some _thing_ did.  _Fasta vass_ , Hawke herself said she was _his_ , but she spent more time with the damnable abomination than she did with Fenris.  A sort of sickness developed in his stomach, equal parts confusion, jealousy, and sadness.  And, as Fenris was obviously no good deciding his own life course, he decided he would seek help.

However, he wasn’t sure he knew where to go for help.  The other two mages were immediately out of the question.  Both of them had already proven that they made horrible life choices and Fenris could never trust anything they ever said.  Anders wanted _his_ Hawke enough that any advice he would give would be sure to be the exactly wrong advice to listen to, in his bid to gain Hawke’s heart away from Fenris, and Merrill was ridiculously fluff-brained, naïve enough to think that summoning a demon to learn blood magic was a good idea simply because she went in without trusting the demon.  Besides, he wasn’t entirely certain that Merrill wasn’t romantically interested in Hawke, either.

Isabela was another option he quickly wrote off.  For one, the mocking would be merciless, all-encompassing, to the point where there was little to the conversation other than Isabela’s mocking teasing.  For another, it wasn’t just _entirely_ about sex with Hawke, although that encompassed a great deal of what he wanted to accomplish at the moment, if he were able to at least be honest with _himself_.  He had obviously done something horribly, _horribly_ wrong, and he needed _relationship_ advice, not _shagging_ advice.

He could try approaching Carver.  He could _try_.  No one knew Hawke better than he did, after all.  However, Fenris sort of hated Carver, and Carver sort of hated Fenris _and_ sort of resented his sister, so there went that idea.  It wasn’t a big deal to discard; he had only entertained it for a very short while, at any rate.

After several days of no Hawke, but plenty of thinking that lead nowhere but in a circle, Fenris decided he would try to seek counsel with Sebastian.  If the man would take confession, perhaps he could give some actual, solid, _reliable_ advice to a completely confused and bewildered Fenris.

 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So Fenris gives up and goes to Sebastian, where he doesn't like what he's been told.

Approaching Sebastian on the matter was easier said than done.  Fenris tried working up courage several times, but for the first week after he decided on this course of action, the best he could do was make it into the Chantry and pray.  Or, pretend to pray; he actually used the quiet to think on Hawke and his relationship with her.

It had been nearly a month since the death of Danarius and Hawke’s (apparent) forgiveness of past stupidity on his part.  He had managed two kisses since then, and held her hand once.  Both kisses seemed to send her skittering away, though, and the hand-holding was while she had finally passed out sleeping.  Their friends knew they were together (“back together,” as Varric would say, although they had had no formal relationship _before_ and only Fenris’s feelings which bound them, him to her) so obviously, Hawke did not dislike him.  Since she had not put paid to the discussions of their being together, and she had given him some looks that even he, novice at love as he was, couldn’t mistake for anything other than what they were, Fenris was fairly certain that he wasn’t imagining a relationship or a bond where there was not one.  So… what was the problem?  


He managed to approach Sebastian, finally, although he was tongue-tied for their first meeting.  He _wanted_ to discuss Hawke, but they wound up discussing esoteric religious theories instead.  Sebastian was tolerant and seemed a bit taken aback by Fenris’s newfound desires to discuss the Maker, but he seemed to go along with it with a relatively good grace, smiling and taking things at a pace that he seemed to think Fenris himself was comfortable with.

Eventually, Fenris worked his way to the topic of his desires: Marian Hawke.

“I am… unsure of what I have done wrong,” he finally confessed, after several meetings between the two of them and Hawke only barely broached the meeting before.  “After three years… I thought Marian wanted me as I want her.  Does that make sense?  Does me desiring her if she does not feel the same make me… I do not wish to seem lewd, you understand.” 

The other man cleared his throat before speaking, gently.  “Have you spoken with Hawke about how you feel?  What you expect and how you view your relationship?”

“I can’t bother her with this!” he snapped.  Talking to Hawke about this without him first having figured out what he should say was the worst idea he could think of!  He would go to Merrill, first!

“One of the keys to a successful relationship is communication,” came the reply, almost as if by rote.  Sebastian sounded so calm and put together.  Why could Fenris not feel that way?  Fenris wanted to hit him.  “Even if you’re discussing just the physical aspects of a relationship, you must speak of boundaries, for example, and what everyone involved expects.”

A horrible thought suddenly occurred to Fenris.  “What if she has changed her mind?”  His voice was low, urgent and worried.  His mouth felt dry, suddenly.  What if?  Perhaps that was the reason behind her seemingly odd behavior.

Sebastian was still kind.  “Then you still must speak with her about it, Fenris.  It is not fair to either of you, otherwise.  And, you must decide on what _you_ want, as well.”  The lilting brogue sounded comforting and helped calm Fenris’s racing heart.  “What _do_ you want?  Marriage, and family?  To continue as you are?  Something different?”

“I… do not know.  You have given me much to think on, Sebastian.  I truly appreciate you speaking with me on this matter.”

Sebastian’s eyes seemed to twinkle.  “It surely took you long enough to work up to speaking with me, Fenris.  I’m glad you did; I’m always happy to help out friends.”  His grin broadened.  “Besides, I’m not the only one who has been ready for this dance to be over.”

Fenris bristled at that.  “I couldn’t commit to Hawke with Danarius alive!  _Fasta vass_ , does no one but Hawke understand that?  I wasn’t a free man, I had nothing to offer her!”

“Some women just want the man, Fenris.  And you have been free for years; it’s not like we weren’t ever going to help you stop Danarius.  You were never alone, except in your own mind.  Think on that, and Hawke, and go talk to her.  And I hope you will speak with me again, sometime, especially if you are troubled.  I have enjoyed our talks.”

But Fenris did not go talk to Hawke that day.  He gave it several days after his discussion with Sebastian, so that he could think and make decisions, before he decided to surprise Hawke with a visit.  _If_ Hawke loved him as she said, she would be happy to have a surprise visit from him, right?  Maybe Orana would have cooked?  He could couch it in the guise of a reading lesson; he hadn’t truly needed one for years, but sometimes he asked Hawke, or she had volunteered, simply as an excuse to spend time together.  Rarely were they disturbed during those lessons.

Yes.  Excellent.  He would find out when Hawke would be home, someday soon, and he would make time to visit during dinner, bring wine, and ask for a reading lesson after.  Then, he would talk to her.  And she wouldn’t turn him away at dinner; he had experienced that before, where Hawke always made sure to feed anyone who came by at mealtimes.  Heck, one of the reasons he started thinking positively about her in the first place was due to her unending need to ensure that he was fed.  Before Lenadra had died, Fenris had been better fed than any other time in his life, present day included.  The Hawke/Amell women fed people.  Even former elven slaved they had known mere days.

He pulled a few favors from Varric to ensure that Hawke would be home and unbothered the next Tuesday, and then picked out a couple of good bottles of wine, bathed and dressed nicely, and then waited.  And waited.  And waited some more, and felt horribly nervous while doing it.  Why had he prepared so early?  Why could he have not waited until later?  Fenris was not good at doing this.

When the usual time for dinner at the Hawke estate approached, Fenris gathered his nerve and marched himself over, girding his loins and trying not to hope too much in regards to the “loins” business in general.  _Best not to think of that area whatsoever_ , he told himself.  Especially not in relation to thinking of Marian’s loins.  _Dammit, Fenris, stop thinking about loins.  Groins.  Stop it.  Stop.  Now._ He _would_ be happy enough to just sit, and talk with her, to speak of a future together that was a little more fleshed out than how they left it.  Anything beyond sitting and talking together, and eating and drinking, would be more than he _would_ let himself hope for.  _Get it together, elf_.

Bodahn answered the door, as usual, looking surprised that Fenris was visiting.  “Messere Fenris, Lady Hawke is preparing for supper.  I shall let her know you are here.  If you would like to wait in the library?”  He took the bottles of wine, and Fenris’s mood perked up; he would take this as a good sign, that Bodahn wasn’t telling him to leave, or telling him that Hawke was otherwise occupied.  Bodahn was fiercely protective of his mistress and would tell Fenris, in no uncertain terms, to get lost if he were unwelcome.

“Thank you, Bodahn,” was his only reply, and he went to browse the library shelves while waiting for Hawke.

Five minutes passed, and then ten, and then a half hour had passed, with no sign of his expected hostess.  Perhaps it was rude to invite himself over.  Perhaps something came up.  Perhaps Bodahn sent him here to wait, without letting Hawke know, or…  Fenris felt that uneasy lump settle into his stomach again.  What if Hawke _was_ mad about him inviting himself over?  But then he heard her voice, and Weezl perked up from where he had been lounging near the fire, so Fenris swallowed the lump that had moved from his stomach to his throat and tried to slow his breathing.

“… and you have to be more careful,” she was saying to someone.  Her voice was stern and insistent, but not angry.  “We can’t have Templars sniffing around.  One way I stay free is by watching my-“ Her eyes lit on Fenris and she stopped in her tracks.  “Fenris!  I… I wasn’t expecting you!”  She blinked, confused and slightly disoriented.

He gave her one of his rare, genuine, full smiles.  “Marian, I wanted to see-“ The smile melted away as Anders came into view.  “What is _he_ doing here?”  His brows knit together and he knew his voice had taken on a harsh edge.  
 

" _I_ was invited to dinner,” Anders replied, looking smug, and Hawke shot him a withering, scolding look.

“Templars were sniffing around Darktown,” she said to Fenris, turning back to him and managing to both sound and look apologetic.  “I redid my cellar wards and invited Anders to eat and stay the night.  In a _guest_ room,” she added, with pointed looks to them both and an icy edge, in case one or the other of them wanted to make an issue out of whom she allowed stay in her home.

“I apologize for intruding,” Fenris said, stiffly.  “I have seen little of you lately, and wished to dine with you, if you would have me.” _I have missed you.  I am lonely without you.  I crave your touch, your kiss, your scent, your laugh, your horribly ill-timed jokes and the sound your voice makes when you’re telling a story that you’re excited about.  I miss the silly way you treat a fully-grown mabari war hound as if he is an infant.  I am yours, Marian.  I need you._   All of which he tried to convey in two short sentences, none of which he could say in front of fucking Anders, of all people.  Sooner Isabela than Anders, whom had always been the closest thing to a rival for Marian’s affections that Fenris had ever had, excluding Seneschal Bran’s son (and Fenris was fully aware that Seneschal Bran’s son was only in the running in order to piss Seneschal Bran off; Fenris approved.)  Anders was in love with the idea of Marian Hawke, a free mage living as she chose, as opposed to who she actually was.  At least Isabela would mock from a place of friendship to them both, if not lust (for either of them, or both of them, or simply for the idea of them together; Isabela was a woman of passions, and usually paid about fifty silver an hour for them at the Blooming Rose.)

“I know,” Hawke replied, softly.  “Don’t apologize, there’s no need.”  Her cheeks colored faintly in the firelight.  It was getting dark outside, and soon the fire on the hearth would be the only source of light in the library.  Bodahn would have to light the sconces.  “I would like you to at least stay for dinner.  Orana cooks enough for ten, you know.”  She managed a weak, but genuine, smile, eyes only for Fenris.

“I would like that,” he replied earnestly.  “And perhaps a lesson, after?  Or a game of chess?”  Desperate pleas, indeed, to suggest chess.  But anything, to avoid leaving her alone with the damned abomination.  Anything for some quiet time together, to perhaps give him the chance to speak with her and let her know that his words of weeks before were not simply idle talk and speculation.

“That would be lovely!”  Hawke’s smile brightened, and her eyes shone.  The lump returned, but for a different reason.  Suddenly, it felt too hot in the library, and his mouth started to go dry.  Those soft lips, her mouth tasting of apples, gentle hands on his skin, fingers through his hair, naked and writhing under him…

“Fenris?”  She tilted her head, looking concerned.  “I asked you if you’re ready to eat now?”  That beautiful smile.

“Quite,” came his hoarse reply.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris patrols with Aveline and doesn't like the advice he gets.

Holidays were always big times for relaxing in Kirkwall.  Well, all holidays except for All Soul’s Day, that is.  Even the gangs wanted to take time off from killing and robbing and demon worshipping or whatever the trend of the week was.  Plus, summers in Kirkwall were hot, although not as hot as in Minrathous, and everyone wanted an excuse to drink and wear scandalously thin-or-absent clothing.

  
Hawke drank like a fish on holidays, and moreso since her mother died.  She so rarely let herself relax that their entire merry band of misfits would actually cut back so Hawke could have her head.  Fenris felt that Summerday, a day that was usually to celebrate marriages and unity and the summer, would be perfect to try to get her alone and discuss marriage, and unity, and perhaps celebrate the summer in a way that would create more heat and possibly some small amount of sweat, if he remembered things properly.  Lots of alcohol to loosen those inhibitions that both seemed to have developed, and he could finally, finally confess those intentions towards her and then, maybe, drunken kissing and sex, if he were truly lucky.  Hopefully not at The Hanged Man, of course, or the alley behind it, but, well, Alcohol, and Desperation, And Three Years.

  
Hawke was even out of her armor, dressed instead in a gauzy, barely opaque gown of shimmering red, with no sleeves.  Fenris was unsure if she was doing that on purpose, but he would simply have to spend all night by her side to ensure that no one else could get too close.  Especially that Abomination, who eyed Hawke and started drooling.

  
She was extremely popular at The Hanged Man that evening.  There were threats of music just to see if she would be willing to dance.  Fortunately for Fenris, she seemed all too happy to dance attention on _him_ , rather than get up and dance with others, although that may have had as much to do with as the many ales she had finished off by early evening.

  
Soon it was decided that one tavern was not enough to hold all their awesomeness, and other taverns must be patronized that evening as well.  Considering the revelry on the streets of Lowtown, many others weren’t bothering with taverns at all, instead opting for more or less neighborly approaches.

Luck stayed with him, since Hawke decide she wanted to spend a good ten minutes with just the two of them, hands wherever he liked, kissing with abandon.  Fenris quite liked kissing Hawke, for a number of reasons, and tonight he liked that she did not shy from his touch on her hips, or waist, or even when his calloused palms brushed her breast through the thin, shimmering gauze.  Perhaps she had only needed time, he mused, tasting the ale-and-apples of her mouth as she giggled and pressed herself against him, eyelashes fluttering in the lamplight.  Perhaps she had been afraid to take things too quickly, not trusting him after what had happened before.  Understandable, if frustrating, that she would not _talk_ to him about it.

Unfortunately, he only got that about ten minutes (of extremely arousing, breathtaking, heavy petting) before Hawke seemed to sober up, or wake up.  She giggled drunkenly and refused to meet his eyes while digging up an excuse to be away from him.  The rest of the night, he felt like he spent chasing her down from one place to the next.  If Hawke enjoyed such games, she was surely having a great time tonight.

  
At least, he knew, they both went home alone.  That was better than the alternative, to his mind: her going home with someone else was something that Fenris did not think he would ever be able to get over.

Fenris knew he had to take some drastic measures, and in this case, “drastic measures” meant going to Aveline.

  
Aveline took no shit from anyone, including Hawke.  And, while Aveline was horrible at courting, she had been married twice, which was more than Fenris could say about any of their other friends.  Plus, Aveline and Hawke were good friends, and had been friends longer than Fenris had known either of them.  Obviously, trying to talk to Hawke was not going to work, so he would try talking to Aveline instead.

  
Getting the woman to sit still was a problem, however, because Aveline seemed to be perpetually in motion.  However, Fenris promised he would accompany her on a patrol AND he would help the guards practice for a fortnight, so Aveline made it happen.  Fenris found himself patrolling Hightown in the afternoon with Aveline, giving them ample opportunity to talk.

Of course, Fenris couldn’t just lay out his issue.  He, like Varric, found Aveline fucking scary sometimes, and the woman took even easy patrols seriously.  However, he did manage to spit out what the general issue was, _vis a vis_ , he wanted to _be with_ Hawke, not just in the general vicinity.

  
“You two are friends, Aveline.  I was hoping you could give me some advice,” he managed to say, after several hours of beating around the bush. 

  
“Maker’s breath, Fenris.  Just talk to the woman.”  Aveline rolled her eyes and adjusted her sword and shield, which caused Fenris to adjust his own great sword on his back.  Damn, adjusting weapons was as catching as yawing, amongst their friends.

  
“I’m not good at talking,” he muttered, sullenly, after ensuring his sword was strapped to his back in a proper fashion.

  
“Then _show_ her,” Aveline huffed, clearly exasperated.

  
“I have been trying for two months to _show her_.  What if… What if Hawke has… …changed her mind about me?  I’m hardly a catch.” 

A rough snort from the other woman.  “Stop selling yourself short.  And stop brooding—“

“I do not _brood_!”

  
“ _Stop_ brooding, Fenris, and talk to her,” Aveline ordered.

  
“Talk to who, Captain Man Hands?”  Isabela’s Rivaini accent cut through their conversation and Aveline sighed and rubbed her temples. 

  
“Not the time, whore,” she shot back, and Isabela grinned and draped her arm over Aveline’s pauldrons.

  
“I knew you’d come play for the other team eventually,” Isabela replied, with a cheeky grin.  Aveline shrugged the arm off and Fenris cursed his luck internally.

  
“We’re not talking about me,” came the near-sighed reply.  “Now don’t you have someone to rob?  Or sleep with?  Or both?”

  
“If you need help talking to women, well… _I’m_ a woman.  I might be able to give a hint or two.”  She winked playfully at Fenris and he scowled, dropping his eyes to the paving stones and praying the tips of his ears didn’t turn red.  There was no way to keep this from Isabela at this point.  He would, however, give it one final shot, if possible.

  
“Perhaps I should speak with Donnic,” he managed to get out, to Aveline, although he had little hope the words would save him from Isabela.

  
“Donnic doesn’t know how to speak to women!” Isabela snort-laughed.  “Besides, I already know who you’re talking about,” she teased, sing-song.

  
“Who, exactly, then?” he managed without snarling.  Isabela tested his patience on good days; on bad, she tried to seduce him, which was doubly insulting, as she was supposed to be Hawke’s friend, and he was supposed to be Hawke’s… somewhat significant other.

  
Isabela grinned and rolled her eyes playfully, putting her hands on her hips.  “Who else?  Hawke, of course.  Half the men in this town want to bed her, and _you_ already have, sweet thing.  She’s smitten with you.  Who else would you be talking about?”

  
He turned the phrase over in his head before speaking it, slowly, almost as if tasting the words.  “Smitten…with…me…”

  
“I don’t know who’s luckier, you or her,” the pirate continued.  “But if you two don’t get on with it, _I’ll_ be the one getting lucky,” she warned.

  
“I am… listening,” he replied, through gritted teeth.

  
“Not out here you’re not.  You’re going to buy me a couple of pints, too.  I’ll get your lady back for you.”  Her mischievous grin showed teeth.

  
“This evening.  I have to help Aveline finish up her patrol.”  The Guard Captain in question had wandered off to speak with one of the regular market guardsmen.

  
“Hanged Man, then, after patrol.  See you when you get there, sweet thing.”  Isabela blew him a kiss, which earned another scowl.  Fenris never thought of himself as having “a type,” but if he did, Isabela was _not_ it.  Not that she was unattractive -many men and women had obviously found her so.  She just wasn’t _to him_.

“I see the whore took off,” came Aveline’s voice behind and slightly to the left of him.  Fenris startled slightly and blinked, trying to clear his mind.

“I am meeting her later.  She claims she can help,” he said.  Another indelicate snort from Aveline showed what the Guard Captain thought of _that_.

“Good luck.  The best you’ll get out of her is lewd comments and a lighter purse,” she said, but fondly.  The two women fought like sisters: lots of heat but no true animosity.

“I am afraid I may be desperate at this point,” he admitted slowly, feeling heat rise to the tips of his ears.  Maker’s breath, how was he supposed to woo Hawke if he couldn’t even get somewhat near the subject without these bloody _blushes_?!

“You’re not desperate, you’re just worse at this than I am,” Aveline replied with a smirk. 

“You’re right.  At least I’ve avoided copper marigolds.  Although I’m fairly certain I’ll break out that it’s a ‘nice night for an evening’ any time now,” he grumped, discouraged.

Aveline shrugged slightly.  “I may use stupid pick-up lines and bad gifts, but I’m the one who’s married and in a stable relationship with the man I love.”  Leave it to Aveline to have an actual point.

“You’re not wrong,” Fenris admitted.

“Good.  Now let’s finish up this patrol.”  


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris drinks with Isabela, and gets advice that he kinda likes.

 

“So,” Isabella said, chin in hand, smirk on lips, pint on the way.  “You want to get laid.”

Fenris scowled, eyes on the table, hands curling into fists, bangs falling into face to obscure the blush that he _knew_ had to be creeping onto his cheeks already.  “No,” he replied, his tone low and warning.  “I want Hawke back.”

“You know she never left,” came the lazy, amused reply.  “And judging from that ribbon on your wrist, for the last three years, neither did you.”  The scowl remained; this was a mistake.  He should never have trusted Isabella to give him actual, usable advice.  He stood to leave when the woman heaved a long-suffering sigh and grimaced at him.  “Sit down, Fenris.”

“Why?  When you’re just going to mock me and… and… and be unhelpful!”

“Because,” she drawled, “I know how to get a woman into bed, and I will share that knowledge with you for the measly sum of ‘pints until I pass out.’  Sound like a fair trade?”

He growled slightly and looked away, then clenched his eyes shut and sat down.  It was true: Isabella _did_ know how to get women into bed, and, if he were being strictly honest with himself, one of his goals was to get _Hawke_ into bed.  Not for a night, but for all nights, but still, baby steps.  “This had better work,” he replied.  “If it drives Hawke further away…”

“Ye of so little faith!” Isabella protested. 

“So you’ve noticed?”  He smiled, just slightly, the barest twitch of the corner of his mouth.

“I’ve noticed plenty, sweet thing,” Isabella purred.  “Will you do your fisting thing on me, if it doesn’t work?”  She grinned at him, mockingly.

“I doubt you would find it as pleasant as you think,” Fenris replied, the scowl back on his face.  “And some ground rules – none of that,” he said, with a scornful gesture.  “I am not interested in you, Isabella.  I know you can be more business-like than this, and I ask that you oblige.  You hurt your friends when you do not honor their wishes.”

The pirate rolled her eyes.  “How forceful,” she quipped dryly.  “And duly noted.”  She sighed, much put-upon, and then said, “Fine… I agree to your ‘terms’ if you keep buying and listening.”

“A mutually beneficial arrangement, I’m sure,” he said, their deal struck.

The next several hours seemed like so much waste of time.  Isabela got drunker and made less sense and Fenris felt his time would have been better spent watching paint dry.  There were a few moments of interest, including a new poem by Bad Poet and more drunken ramblings by Drunk Guy in the Corner, but the evening was pretty much a bust until Aveline’s husband, Donnic, came in and found Fenris nearly immediately. 

“Aveline said you’d be here,” Donnic stated, straight to the point and no-nonsense, just like his wife.  “She said you wanted to talk about something with me?”

_Friend points to Aveline_ , he thought, before clearing his throat and replying.  “I had been speaking with Isabela about… this… but I am certain you can provide me with…”  He glanced at the drunk woman.  “Better counsel.”  Certainly, more reliable.  Speaking with Isabela had been a mistake.  “Care for some Diamondback at my place?”

Donnic glanced at the obviously sloshed pirate as well and nodded, quickly.  “Maker, yes,” he agreed, and they worked together to get Isabela up to her room, first.  Fenris made sure to alert Varric of her condition (“absolutely wasted”) and then he and Donnic made for Fenris’s borrowed, dilapidated mansion, so close to Hawke’s much nicer, restored and legally obtained estate back in Hightown. 

Fenris brought out the wine while Donnic set up the card table; he was over at least once a week for cards and company (Fenris had already publicly disavowed knowledge of gambling in his home) and he had grown well-acquainted with Fenris’s set-up over the course of the years.  Fenris felt he could trust Donnic nearly as much as he could trust Hawke, and that was high praise indeed. 

After a good half hour of wine, card games, previously-disavowed gambling, and relative quiet, Donnic finally coughed slightly and addressed the main topic.

“So, you wanted to talk to me about Hawke?”

He could feel the heat rise to his face.  How did it always _do_ that?  It had been so peaceful and quiet and familiar, and calm, after the cacophony that was Isabela and The Hanged Man, that Fenris had nearly forgotten the original purpose for Donnic’s visit.

“I—yes.  Donnic, how did you let Aveline know you were interested in her?  As… more than friends?”

Donnic cleared his throat and kept his eyes strictly on his cards.  “A more tactile approach,” he said, after a moment.  “Although, if it hadn’t been for Hawke’s help to begin with, I probably would have waited longer, or not acted at all, more the fool me.”

Fenris let quiet overtake them once more, drinking his wine and playing out his hand.

“But I believe that you and Hawke have a… history… in regards to more tactile expressions.  If you were to try to court her, you might need to show more boldness.”  Maker bless Aveline.  While Fenris did not particular care for his love life’s details being spread around to all and sundry, the details of that one night were too humiliating to share himself.  Aveline filling Donnic in saved him more embarrassment than it caused, in the long run.

“What sort of boldness would be called for, in this sort of situation?”

“The sort that involves sitting Hawke down and _talking_ to her about how you feel and what you want.  I know Hawke well enough by now to know that she gives everyone at least five minutes of her time.  Even that Quentin got that.”  Awkward shuffling of cards and adjusting of positions, carefully not looking at each other.  Eventually, Donnic shrugged and drew another card, and a less awkward silence fell between them once again.

“So just… show up and talk.”  But that hadn’t worked before, because of Anders.  Although Hawke did seem pleased to see him, and they wound up staying up late playing chess while Anders stayed in the guest room Hawke always put aside for him.  They just didn’t actually speak about anything _important_ , Fenris not wanting to broach the subject with even a chance that Anders would overhear.

“Pretty much.”  Donnic shrugged again.  “It’s that easy, if you’ll let it be.”  He nodded along with his words.

“What if,” Fenris began, then stopped and scowled at his hand.  “What if Hawke is difficult to get alone?  I know Aveline had that issue with you.”

“Difficult to get alone and sort of your boss?”  He grimaced, an expression he was surprised to see mirrored on Donnic’s face.  “Then try going somewhere it’s just the two of you.  Try a picnic up on the Wounded Coast.”

For a moment, Fenris wondered if Donnic was actually familiar with the same Wounded Coast _he_ was familiar with.  There was little there that he and Hawke couldn’t handle by themselves, especially with her magic, but picnics were hardly romantic when you had to fight off bandits.  Even Hawke wound up bloody after most fights, even if it wasn’t _her_ blood.

“Perhaps not the Wounded Coast,” Donnic continued, startling Fenris out of his reverie.  “Maybe the Viscount’s garden?  I’m certain Aveline can get you in there.”

“Yes,” he responded, sitting up straighter.  “Yes.  Could… Aveline could arrange the picnic.  And make sure Hawke shows up.”  He brushed his bangs out of his face.  “Yes.  That could work.  Thank you, Donnic.”

“Anything for a friend.”


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris and Hawke have a picnic.

As dates went, the idea could have been worse.

A private, romantic picnic in the Viscount’s private gardens.  Wine, food, flowers, privacy.  Aveline might not have been good about arranging her own romantic trysts when she was trying to court Donnic, but Fenris had been invited to enough of her dinner parties to know the woman was good at planning social events, especially ones involving others.

Fenris showed up at the appointed time, finding no difficulty with the guards, who were expecting him.  Having friends in the city guard was a good thing, most of the time.

Unfortunately, Fenris had not counted on Merrill being there, uninvited.  And Merrill seemed surprised to Fenris, as well.  Worse, the blood mage couldn’t be bothered to take a hint, and he was stuck listening to her rambling for an hour before he heard the familiar barking of Weezl.  The mabari was bounding through the gardens, so Hawke must be there.

“Leave now, witch,” Fenris said, trying hard not to let his nervousness show.

“Is that Hawke’s mabari?  Oh, I hope she’s nearby.  I haven’t seen her for days now, and…”

“No, you need to leave,” he insisted.  Hawke would invite her to stay if she were still there, and Fenris couldn’t allow that!

But Merrill was still rambling, making wide gestures with her hands, when Weezl found them.  Fenris sighed to himself.  It looked like his romantic plans were doomed before he even got started.

Hawke was not far behind Weezl, and she gave Fenris a brilliant smile that quickened his pulse.  She flushed slightly, then caught sight of Merrill and her expression turned confused.

“Hello, Fenris,” she called out.  “And hello, Merrill.  I wasn’t expecting you,” she said, to the Dalish woman.

“Just a happy coincidence!” Merrill chirped, happily.

“That’s debatable,” Fenris grumped.  “I am pleased to see you well, Hawke,” he soldiered on.  “We should have enough for a picnic, if you’re willing.”  He gestured to the basket nearby.

“Oh, a picnic in the garden!”  Merrill clapped her hands together and gave a bounce.  “How lovely!  Oh, what a nice, romantic idea, Fenris!  Who knew you had such romantic ideas?  And you said there were puppy eyes!  And there weren’t in love, but you are, I can tell!”

At that moment, Fenris wanted, more than he ever thought possible his entire life, to be a mage, so that he could strike the witch down where she stood and salvage some of his dignity.

“Merrill, I think Fenris wanted this to be a private picnic,” Hawke tried to tactfully say.

“Oh, well, of course.  It’s not very romantic if all of Kirkwall could come, is it?  Or bandits, up and down the Coast!”  She gave a little giggle.

“Merrill?”

“Oh, yes, Hawke?”

“Merrill, Varric wanted to talk to you.  He’s at The Hanged Man.  Tell him it’s about the private, romantic picnic that Fenris planned for myself and him, and he’ll remember.”

“I just love Varric,” she replied, smiling, and Fenris fought to keep his palm from his face.  “He’s so funny.  Why, one time—“

“He need to speak with you about that soon, Merrill,” Hawke urged.

“Oh, then, I should get going right away!”

“See you later, Merrill,” Hawke said, with a wave, and then Merrill was taking off out of the garden, and both Hawke and Fenris were there, seeming to feel rather awkward and not quite looking at one another.

“So, Aveline said—“

“Aveline told me—“ they both said, at the same time, and Hawke chuckled awkwardly and fidgeted with the sleeve of her robe.

“I am glad you came,” Fenris finally said.  “I wasn’t sure you would.”

“Of course I would!  There were just… things… I had to deal with,” she finished, sighing and suddenly looking very tired.

“Would you care to sit down?”  He gestured to where the blanket was spread out.  “I have wine, and some roast and vegetables, and bread, and cherry tarts.”

Hawke grinned marvelously at him.  “Cherry tarts?  How can I say ‘no’ to those?”  They sat together on the blanket while Fenris plated the picnic.  There was also cheese and pickles, and Hawke smiled the whole time they rifled through the basket, asking him playfully if they couldn’t have dessert first.

It wasn’t as awkward as Fenris had feared, from that point on.  They ate and chatted and gossiped about their friends, and Hawke seemed to relax by measures, which was his main goal.  She seemed too tense and sad lately, and he knew that he had the ability to help fix those problems, if she were willing to let him.  She seemed willing, ergo he would do his best to help her.

After a good hour, he quieted, thinking hard.  Both Sebastian and Donnic had said to _speak_ to her, to let her know how he felt and what he wanted, and to find out what _she_ wanted as well.  He swallowed hard.  Now was the perfect time.

“Marian,” he managed to say, though it came out rather creaky.  “I was wondering… What are your plans?  For the future, I mean.”

Her eyes widened noticeably, and she blinked rapidly before rubbing them with one hand.  “I… I don’t know, honestly,” she said, finally.  “I confess that I always wanted marriage and children, although I have resigned myself to not getting either of those things when I was a teenager.”

“May I ask why?  Those are laudable desires, although not ones many would expect from you, all things considered.”

Hawke laughed then.  “Oh, that was before I had to become ‘Hawke,’ of course.  Before Father died, and before I had to accept that no one wanted to marry an apostate with so much magic running in her blood.”  She leaned back slightly and swirled the wine around in her glass.  “After father died, I was the one in charge, you know, suddenly and all that, and I had to grow up fast.  Bethany still thought she could get the kids and husband, but I was suddenly eighteen and I had to learn better.”

“Sure things have changed now, have they not?”

She quirked a brow.  “All things change, Fenris.”  She glanced at her wineglass and took a long sip of it.  “But as no one has shown any interest in marrying me, I suppose I am no closer now than I was ten years ago.  In fact, now I am 28, which is a much less marriageable age than eighteen, I assure you.  And I have a city I’m having to practically run, for all that Meredith is the one in charge.”  Her voice took on a bitter edge at that.

This was not going as he had planned it.  He needed her to say she would be willing to marry _him_ , so he could ask her, formally.

“Would—“ Weezl crashed through the flowers nearby, followed by a curse that sounded like Aveline.  Hawke glanced to where the sound was coming from and sighed as she stood, straightening her robe.

“Hello, Aveline!” she called out, sounding bone-tired and less than enthusiastic to him.

“Hawke.  Fenris.”  Aveline nodded to them both.  “Sorry to bother you, Hawke, but I’m afraid you’re needed in the Viscount’s square.  Orsino is up there preaching outright rebellion, and the Knight-Commander is on her way.”

Fenris had never hated Aveline before, but in that moment…

Hawke shook her head, sighing again.  “I guess we’ll save those tarts for another time?”  She smiled at Fenris, her fake one, and gestured to Aveline.  “Lead the way, Guard-Captain.  The tension was back around her eyes, and she looked strained.

As irritated with Aveline as he was for the interruption, he was doubly irritated with himself.  Interruptions by the Guard-Captain were pretty much the norm for Hawke.  However, combined with his questions and the answers she was giving…

Those answers troubled him, in large part because they seemed so hollow and hopeless.  She wanted marriage and children, and for whatever reason she said she loved Fenris, but did not voice the two worlds together, as if she did not believe the depth of his commitment or longing.  And ten more minutes… _Fasta vass_.  _Five_ more minutes, and he could have, perhaps, settled he worries and eased her fears.

Weezl tromped after his mistress and Fenris was left alone in the pretty garden to pack up the romantic picnic.  _“Fasta vass,”_  he cursed to himself.  “ _Venhedis_ , can this wretched city not care for itself for one day, without her?”  Forget one day; one hour seemed more than it was capable of.  Perhaps a trip to the Wounded Coast would have been better, bandits and all.

The thought occurred to him, then, that he could bring the basket back to Hawke’s estate and surprise her there when she returned.  She was bound to work up an appetite, dealing with the squabbling children this city considered to be its leadership, and she would eventually return home.  He could be there, waiting for her, ready to listen and speak with her some more regarding their future together.

Yes… Hawke would enjoy such a surprise, he decided.  She would appreciate both the thought of it and the meal, especially the cherry tarts.  Hawke could probably happily live off cherry tarts the rest of her life, he thought, amusing himself somewhat out of his irritation.

But Hawke did not return until late, and when she finally did return, the weariness showed on her face prominently.  She begged off further eating and even a hot bath, and only vaguely nodded when Fenris took his leave of her, only deigning to change into something comfortable for sleeping because he refused to leave until she promised him that she would.

The next morning, Fenris showed back up at the Hawke estate early enough that she shouldn’t have left yet, yet late enough that she should have gotten plenty of sleep, only to find her already awake, dressed, and fed, and pouring over correspondence at her desk.  Her eyes were darkly shadowed already, showing how little restful sleep she had actually gotten, and Fenris was doubly irritated with himself for not staying and insisting on her getting the rest she was due.  Her long, black hair was done up in an untidy bun and she had ink smeared over her nose, cheek, and fingertips.  Her shadowed eyes usually shone –with happiness, mischief, humor, whatever good mood she was _normally_ in—and today they were dull and obviously troubled.

“Sorry about running out on you last night, Fen.”  Even her voice was tired and strained.

“Marian, why do you work yourself so hard?  This city will not fall apart without you for a day.”  _And I might.  You might_.

“Andraste’s tits, Fen, not you, too.”  The tired turned to irritation.  “I know when I’m needed, and given the number of apologies Aveline had for me, I was needed then.”  She glanced towards him briefly, then looked again, eyeing him appraisingly.  “Maybe you’re the one she should be apologizing to, instead of me, Ser Death Walking.”

He ducked his head down, letting his bangs fall into his face to hide a scowl.  Damn him, he wanted to ease her worries, not add to them, and even if the words were jesting, the tone had barely changed.

“I am fine, Hawke.  If she wishes to apologize, she knows where to find me.”  He shuffled his feet and fidgeted with the red ribbon tied over his gauntlet.  “I –that is, _you_ —are the one I… have concern… for.”

“I know,” she sighed, and then she leaned back in her chair and gently massaged her yes.  “And you’re great, to be so concerned.  I just don’t know what else to do.”

He knew what he could do.  Fenris began stripping off his gauntlets as he spoke.  “You could find a tough, tenacious, beautiful mercenary living in her uncle’s hovel in Lowtown, with her mother and bratty younger brother—“

“Aveline says he’s a tit!” she giggled.  Gauntlets off, he hesitantly stepped forward stood behind her, then placed the tips of his fingers on her head.  She jumped slightly, in surprise, before sighing loudly.  A good sigh, this one; he rather enjoyed hearing it.  Perhaps he could hear similar ones, later…

“ –A younger tit of a brother,” he continued, gently massaging her forehead.  “And you can hire her for ridiculous jobs that you could easily do yourself, and pay her for recovering your favorite lost Stocking of Enchantment—“Another giggle.  Her eyes were closed, he saw, and her lips were turning up in a smile.  Good.

“And mount an expedition to—“ Not the Deep Roads.  “—To Ferelden, to obtain lost mabari pups, where you would be stuck on a ship with me and Varric and Isabela for weeks, and this unknown, beautiful woman—“

“You keep calling her beautiful.  Should I be jealous?” she teased, in a voice that sounded rather relaxed.  Fenris smiled himself, pleased.  _He_ was doing this for her.

“Only if you wish to downplay your own looks,” he replied.  “’Beautiful’ is a lesser description for you.”  He gently kissed the crown of her head and she sighed again, another happy, contented sigh.  He started to feel remarkably uncomfortable in his pants.  “And then,” he continued, as much to distract himself as to distract her, fingers sliding down to her neck to gently rub there.  “Then, she can make a fortune, defeat the Arishok in single combat, and become the _new_ Champion.”  _And you and I will be free to be happy together_ , he added, to himself.

She turned in her chair and took his hands in her own, kissing his calloused palms.  “A fine plan,” she said, the winkle back in her eyes and a slight grin playing on her lips.  “When do we start?”

“Tomorrow,” he insisted.  “Today is for us.”

She laughed, a sound to make him smile even more.  “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely,” he said.


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris gets desperate and talks to Varric.

It had been four months since Fenris and Hawke had, as Varric put it, “reconciled.”  Hawke always scoffed at the term, explaining that they were always friends (which stretched the truth slightly, because those first months, they were hardly friends) and all they had actually done is decide to be “more than friends.”  That stretched the truth a great deal, on Fenris’s part; the Hawke crest he wore at his belt declared his allegiance to the world, and he was still grateful that she hadn’t said she was aware of the meaning behind the red ribbon on his wrist (a Tevinter custom that declared, for all the world to see, that one was not available, romantically, as one’s heart was already claimed.  It seemed more romantic that way) that he had worn, daily, for the last three years.  He made public declaration that he was Hawke’s, in his heart, and she could have moved on, but he never would.

And in these four months of “reconciliation,” of them being publicly, a romantically involved couple (oh! The scandal!  That the Champion happily accepted an elven lover _publicly!_ ) Fenris was becoming more and more frustrated with his inability to either just talk with Hawke about his desires or act on said desires.  He had, as Varric had put it, one drunken night while they were playing cards, signed the papers, but he hadn’t yet sealed the deal.  Fenris hated thinking of it that way and decided that it was probably the best way to think of it, in his own mind.  He had had a rather lot to drink that night, after all, but the term never quite got replaced with anything else.

The few times he had managed to be in a more intimate setting with her, something had always interrupted them.  The most hated of the interruptions was Anders, that _damned_ abomination who, for some insane, _stupid_ reason, Hawke allowed in her home at his own personal discretion.  The secret entrance in Darktown had a lock, and Anders had the key.  It also had a magical barrier, and Anders had the key to that as well.  Fenris was certain that nothing… untoward… was going on, but even so, jealousy reared up each time he arrived at Hawke’s and the damned abomination was already there, or when he showed up right as Hawke was melting into his kiss or embrace, the hope that _this_ was the time crowing in his heart.

Killing the abomination would be considered rude, he knew.  There were some few unspoken rules in their circle of friends, and killing one of them was right out.  He also decided that killing Anders, while being initially satisfying, would actually keep him from his desired goal even longer, between grief over his death, anger at Fenris for causing it, and irritation at purposeful and intentional violation of Group’s Unspoken Rules.

But neither could he continue living with this jealousy.  It was a poison as surely as the hate he had harbored was a poison, and he found himself short-tempered and snappish when he truly did not wish to be, especially not with Hawke.  He began to grow just slightly paranoid, wondering if Anders was doing this on purpose, to try to drive a wedge between Hawke and himself.  He would not put it past the abomination to do such a thing.

Fenris felt like a desperate man, at this point.  He did not appreciate casual touch from most people, but Hawke’s touch was barely casual, even when it was.  Her caresses warmed him, her kisses inflamed him, the thought of her in… other… situations drove him to _distraction_.  With others, even the accidental brush of elbows could cause a flare of the memory of pain.  Hawke’s touch was something he actively sought out and, being denied it, he found himself frustrated, in several different respects.

He was fairly certain that Hawke had the same desires he did.  She gave him looks that were enticing, lingering touches that were mouth-watering, and smiles that made his heart pound.  If even Fenris was able to catch those clues, perhaps it was not _just_ him seeing what he wanted to see, as every single one of Hawke’s merry band of misfits commented on it at one point or another.  And now, desperate times were calling for desperate measures.  He would have to speak with Varric.

Varric handled most of Hawke’s business.  He was in charge of investing her money, handling her bills, appraising certain requests, and a certain level of scheduling of her days.  It was by his own choice, Fenris knew; he and Hawke had regular meetings to discuss things, and to make sure Varric was not overworked.  Varric, in turn, was able to make no small amount of coin simply by doing what came naturally to him, which freed up time for him to write.  If there was one thing Varric loved more than gold, it was writing.

As much as the idea irritated him, Fenris decided his best bet to get Hawke alone so that they could at least _talk_ resided with Varric, and Varric had been a trusted friend to Fenris as long as the two had known each other.  Mocking and teasing from Varric was always in a friendly manner, at least, and even Fenris could see it was mostly harmless.

Varric was as wealthy as Hawke was, in his own right, and even had the “Tethras” name to back him up, but he seemed happiest in his palatial suite at The Hanged Man.  Truth be told, no one would be able to picture Varric elsewhere; the dwarf lived for knowledge and gossip and secrets, and would just not be at home in an estate in Hightown as he would in his tavern rooms.

So The Hanged Man was where Fenris sought him, ready to beg, threaten, cajole, ask, and exchange favors for only a few days alone with Marian Hawke, preferably in a private, romantic setting.  Fenris had a vague idea of proposing marriage to her, and less vague ideas of kisses and embraces and, perhaps, even beds.  His imagination knew no bounds, there.  There were more things than just kisses and embraces that one could do in beds, and he could recall quite clearly doing those with her at one point. 

He knocked heavily on the door to Varric’s suite, the door opening just slightly with the force of it, and called out for the dwarf.

“Come in!” Varric yelled, obviously in the bedchamber.  Fenris waited in the sitting area, the main features of which were the massive and long table and chairs, and the numerous bookcases stuffed with books.

“Varric,” Fenris said, loudly.  “Are you decent?”

“Just a minute,” he replied, so Fenris settled into one of the chairs and began perusing the titles on the closest bookcase.

Five minutes passed before Varric appeared, and another five before he was nodding in understanding, knowing immediately what the issue was.

“I get it, Broody,” he said, steepling his fingers.  He was sitting in his customary seat at the head of the table and they both had pints of the usual shill in front of him, although Fenris had touched his only as courtesy.  “you want time with Hawke.  _All_ of her, not just her most popular parts.”

“Creatively put, as always,” was the dry response.

“Isabela’s not the only helper around here.”  He took a long drink, seemingly finishing up his ale, before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.  “I’ll do what I can.  I know already that you need to have All Soul’s Day clear,” he said, suddenly quite serious.

“Because of Leandra.”

“And Bethany.  And Malcolm,” Varric agreed.  “Not the most romantic of holidays, and don’t you go putting any moves on her then, either.”  As if Fenris would try.  He remembered what a sobbing wreck she had been that first All Soul’s Day after her mother had been murdered.  “Just being there for her will mean a lot.”

“I understand.”  He was there for her every year.  On All Soul’s Day or not.  They all were, always together, there for each other.  They had all lost someone important to them, and loss and remembrance were easier to bear with friends and modest amounts of alcohol.

“Maybe I should get with her about holding something at her place,” Varric mused, rubbing the stubble on his chin.  “She always likes an excuse to cook and feed us, and you would have a perfect excuse for staying over.”

“I would like,” Fenris said, “to have time with her by myself.  Alone.  No jobs, no one butting in.”  He gave a brief sketch of what had happened with the picnic, and how Aveline had butted in at the most inopportune time, leaving Hawke feeling even worse. 

“Andraste’s dimpled buttcheeks, I bet Aveline felt like a right ass, at that,” Varric said, chuckling.  “After helping to set things up…” He shook his head.  “The problem is, Hawke would get suspicious, so unless you’re _wanting_ to let her know your plans, there’s no way to clear out her schedule like you’re asking.”

Fenris harrumphed, scowling at his now mostly empty tankard.  “this is not just for my sake,” he sake, trying a different angle.  “You must have seen how tired she looks.  How drawn.  Hawke needs a break.”

“And you’re the elf to give it to her,” he replied, nodding.  “Which means that you’re the one who should be talking her into this.  You come up with an idea, talk her into it, and I’ll make it happen.”

He turned his scowl onto he wooden tabletop.  “If I could get enough time to speak with her about speaking to her, I would hardly need to go through you,” he snarled.

“Can’t help you there, Broody,” Varric replied, sighing a little bit.  “You might need to risk the clinic.”

His eyes came up to search Varric’s face.  “The clinic?”  The only clinic he knew of was the abomination’s.

“You didn’t know?  Of course not.  Maker’s breath, Hawke…” He sighed again.  “She’s been helping Blondie in the clinic a lot, lately.  Hours daily, that I know of, putting those Healing skills to use.”

“And she did not see fit to inform me that she was spending all this time with the abomination.”  Without thought, he hurled the ceramic tankard against the wall, where it shattered and spilled what little remained.  “Spending time with _Anders_ instead of _me_ and not even telling me about it?!”

“Cool it, Fenris,” Varric said, voice hard.  Fenris glared at the dwarf, hands curling into fists so tight that the tips of his gauntlets cut into his palms.  “She’s not stupid.  She knows that you and Blondie hate each other and that he needs a friend right now.  I’m not sure how much ‘Blondie’ is left.  You get left out of jobs with him, for the most part, so you don’t see it, but the rest of us do.  He’s losing himself to Justice, and Hawke’s being a friend.”

“But I need her, too.”  It sounded pathetic to his own ears.  Varric’s expression softened, and Fenris realized how vulnerable he had made himself.  If it were anyone but Varric…

“You need her, but Blondie’s an actual threat right now, to others than himself.  Hawke’s keeping those patients safe by watching out for Anders.  By keeping a hold on this obsession that he has.”

“If Hawke is in Darktown, that is where I will go,” Fenris said, and it was his turn for his voice to be hard.

“Just don’t start a fight with Blondie,” Varric warned.  “In fact, if you brought some supplies, you’d make Hawke happy _and_ have a reason to be there.”

Fenris nodded.  “Yes.  Yes, a good idea,” he muttered.  “I will speak with you later,” he told the dwarf, before setting out to collect whatever bandages, elfroot, antiseptics and the like that he could find.  Prices were high, in Lowtown, but he hadn’t lost any coin—he hadn’t _played much Wicked Grace_ with the others, lately, and he had the coin to spend.  It would be worth it to bankrupt himself, to be in Hawke’s good graces, that he knew.

Within hours he was picking his way through Darktown, trying to avoid stepping in the worst of the mess.  Darktown was even worse than Lowtown –it was even worse than the alienage.  Walking through Darktown was one time Fenris wished he wore shoes, because it was just a disgusting and smelly place that he loathed coming to and always needed at least one bath after visiting.

At least Hawke and the abomination were at the clinic; Fenris had been afraid they would not be, or that, Maker forbid, he would find them in the compromising situation he so feared.  As it was, Anders was behind a curtained partition, delivering a baby, it sounded like, while Hawke was wrapping bandages around the hand of an old woman who looked like she would blow away in a strong wind.  Hardly the kind he expected to see thriving in Darktown.

“And come back if it turns red, or you have a fever,” Hawke was telling her, concerned and gentle.

“What for do I owe ye?” asked the old woman.

“Messere Hendricks is back having a baby.  One night a week for a month, make dinner for the family and deliver it,” Hawke said, matter-of-factly.  “Even a thin soup is better than nothing, but go by the food pantry and show them this, and they’ll give you an extra rasher of potatoes to cook,” she finished, pressing a token into the old woman’s good hand.

“Thank ye, Champion,” the old woman said, pocketing the token and hobbling out.  Fenris rushed to get Hawke’s attention before the next patient could.

“Maker’s breath, Fenris!” she exclaimed, eyes wide as she took the box filled with supplies.  “You’re a sight for sore eyes!”  Her smile was radiant, full of love, and he dug his fingers into the sides of the box to stop from kissing her right there in front of all of Darktown.

“Varric told me you needed help down here,” Fenris said.  “I am no Healer, but tell me, and it is done.”

Her eyes widened in delight.  “Really?  I thought… Well, nevermind.  You truly wish to help?”

He nodded, letting his bangs fall into his face to hide his expression.  “I wish to help _you_ ,” he said, putting extra emphasis on the “ _you_.”

Hawke grinned.  “Well, set those down in the back and go get me two things: sawdust, or straw, and as many large bottles of vinegar as you can.”

Fenris blinked, confused.  “But I wanted to spend time with you—“

“You wanted to help?  This will save me a lot of time and help me tremendously!  We need clean rushes for the floor and vinegar to clean the cots and supplies.”  She dug out some coin and gave it to him, along with directions to the most likely places to find his quarry.

“Get back soon enough and we can have dinner together tonight!”  She said it so brightly that his heart swelled.  She _did_ wish to be with him.  Score one: Fenris, Score Zero: Abomination.

“Just us?”

“Us and Weezl,” she said, winking.  He smiled, a bare half-smile this time.

“Then I shall return shortly,” he promised.

He took longer than he wanted, but after returning she set him to work cleaning in the clnic, offering him constant smiles, stupid jokes, and happy company.  Anders was busy in and out of the partitioned area and seemed unpleasantly surprised to see Fenris there.  The feeling was mutual, of course, but considering how pleased –how _genuinely_ pleased—Hawke was to see Fenris there, he took to the idea that irritating the abomination would be a side benefit to pleasing his Hawke.

True to her word, close to dinnertime Hawke started shooing out waiting patients who were not emergencies, and when no one at all was left in the clinic except the woman giving birth, Fenris, Hawke, Anders, and the woman’s sister, Hawke shut off the lanterns outside and had Fenris help straighten up, pulling soiled bedsheets into canvas bags, separating bandages that could be washed and reused from those that could not, and wiping down what they could with some of the vinegar.

“Orana will be expecting us for dinner,” she promised him, as soon as they made their way to her hidden cellar door.  “You are welcome to start, or wash up first.”  She looked down at herself and laughed, self-depreciatory.  “I think I’d like a bath first, to be honest.”

“A bath does sound good,” he agreed, thinking of one book of Isabela’s that he had read where the hero and his lady bathed together.  It was not exactly appropriate for all audiences, and he wondered if Hawke knew about such things, and how to broach the topic, and if it were appropriate with just them as an audience, when she broke into his reverie.

“I’ll heat the guest bath for you, then,” she was saying.  “If you want to run to your mansion and get some clean things to change into.”

Ah, well, then.  If she had rejected the unvoiced idea… “Yes.  And I will return, and bathe, and we can have dinner together.”

“You should keep some things here,” she said, not quite looking at him as they climbed through the cellars.  “If you liked, that is.”

Fenris was unsure how to interpret that statement.  He much preferred the idea of being unclothed at Hawke’s estate, with an equally unclothed Hawke.  However, he was relatively certain that this was not the direction her thoughts were going.  “Perhaps I should,” he said, narrowly avoiding asking her what she meant so that he did not look even more the fool.

“That’s good,” she said.  “That would be good, then.  A good thing.  For good.  Yes.”  But she still didn’t look at him, and the magelight she used to light their way cast too many queer shadows for him to actually catch her expression.

Hours later, baths and dinner complete, he found himself virtually cuddled against her on the library sofa, too warm, full, and content, not to mention sleepy, to remember the things he had wanted to talk to her about.  The small part of him that was fully awake and coherent kept trying to urge the rest of him to action, but Fenris was too mellowed out to want to break the happy spell, especially if it meant Hawke might move away from him and he would lose that delicious scent of apples that always hung around her.

So the pattern of the next days went, for a month.  When there were no jobs, he would accompany her to the clinic, helping the sick and injured and irritating Anders as a bonus.  Their friends all seemed to drop by and help as well, even Isabela, if all she did was drop off coin and suspiciously labeled supplies, or food enough to feed all and sundry present for that meal.

Evenings were washing up and dinner, when not out on later jobs or when Hawke did not have events to attend.  She even managed to wrangle promises from Fenris to attend some of them with her, first making sure he would invest in proper attire other than his armor.

Their evenings out were mildly entertaining, he had to admit.  Hawke clearly enjoyed dressing in pretty gowns and doing her hair up and she looked ravishingly lovely while doing it.  Fenris took perverse pleasure in the scandal that the others in the nobility saw in their relationship, and free food and alcohol were always enjoyable, especially moderately good stuff at the expense of people who gossiped worse than fishwives.

On the whole, the month passed quickly and with no real opportunities for deep conversations.  Hawke was clearly happy with the time they spent together, though, and a happy Hawke meant a relatively happier Fenris.  For the first time he could remember, Fenris felt like an actually free man, in charge of his own life.  He had a house, income, a woman, friends, and the work he was starting to do in the Darktown clinic was turning some of the attention he was used to getting in the market –suspicious looks, frowns, distrustful glares—into almost friendly, respectful ones.  Hawke’s lover, someone who helped the Darktown Healers, someone with coin but who could be trusted.  For the first time, his distinctive appearance was doing him some good.  And, he was surprised to discover, for the first time the box of coin he kept under a board in his mansion was filled, mainly with gold and silver, collected over the years since the Deep Roads.  He was, surprisingly, wealthy in his own right.

The money gave Fenris… ideas.  The first idea was that he absolutely wanted to propose to her, to marry her.  For that, he needed a ring, which was a custom in both Ferelden and the Free Marches, and one which he was happy to uphold.

The second idea was something to invest coin into, and that was easier to accomplish than getting an appropriate ring.  That simply required a trip to see Varric, who was delighted to help Fenris find a local business that was mainly owned by Fereldens and mainly employed Fereldens.  It was a textile manufactory, primarily in the business of making inexpensive rugs, carpets, and blankets, mainly purchased by the slightly-more affluent in Lowtown, but now Fenris was a partner, with completely independent income and employing _Fereldens_ , which would make Hawke ecstatic once she found out.  She had a great love of her countrymen and, while Fenris did not care one way or another, a happy Hawke meant a happy Fenris, for the most part.

Third, Fenris researched marriage laws and customs and prepared to spend a great deal on whatever type of wedding Hawke might want.  He had few preferences, and had not, of course, even asked her yet, but finding these things out were good for him to know, and prepared him more for the future.  He would have to make arrangements with the Chantry, and caterers, and a honeymoon, and someone to play music, and flowers.  Hawke liked flowers, and Fenris liked Hawke, so there would be plenty of flowers to make Hawke happy.

Fenris spent a probably unhealthy amount of time, planning their wedding in his head, especially considering that Hawke hadn’t said yes, or that he hadn’t even asked her, yet.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All Soul's Day

It was going to be one of those days.  Hawke could tell; she’d had plenty of them.

Today was the day to honor those they had lost.  It was a traditional day of mourning and used to mark the start of the fall.  Harvest season, traditionally.  Or, it had been fall in Ferelden.  In Kirkwall, it was the tail-end of summer and plenty warm yet.

Varric had talked her into hosting what passed as a party for All Soul’s Day, bless his heart.  All Soul’s Day was especially rough for Hawke, everyone thought, her having lost the majority of her family or, rather, her blood relations.  Both parents and her sister, and Carver to the templars.  She had gained family over the years, true, but she never forgot those she had lost.

Therefore, it was gearing up to be a party in which Hawke was supposed to smile bravely and be distracted and wound up hating everybody who forced her fake smile.  She was always there for everyone, always being snarky and chipper and this amazing person who defied expectations, and she just wanted one day a year, one day, to remember Father, Mother, Bethany, and _Marian_.  She had to kill Marian and become _Hawke_ so long ago, and no one remembered Marian except for Carver, who didn’t care anymore.  Flames, she wanted to be able to mourn her brother properly, at that.

The ”up” side was that no one truly blamed her if she got piss-ass drunk.  In fact, if tradition help, would all be horribly hungover tomorrow, most of them being horribly hungover in her very house.  Orana already had plenty of willowbark tea in stock, as well as bread baked and a light broth of chicken stock ready for all of them.  More than three years’ worth of All Soul’s Day had prepared her for what to expect.

So, goals for the day: get drunk, listen to others cry about their lost loved ones, do not cry about her own lost loved ones.  Perhaps, she thought, Fenris would join those who lost this year, for surely Varania was as lost to him as Bethany was to Hawke.  Fenris, however, would not be likely to tell anyone he was mourning the loss of his sister, however; it would be up to Hawke to quietly let him know, in private, that she acknowledged his loss, remind him that it was okay to mourn it, and do it all without tripping his many defensive areas.

Hawke loved Fenris dearly, but he could be surly.  And moody.  And emotional.  And grumpy.  And broody.  And often, trying to broach subjects with him was…. Difficult, at best, because he could easily take offense at the most innocuous of subject matter.  It had taken years before he finally realized that Hawke was not trying to intentionally offend him, and he was finding insult where none truly existed.  And that was with Hawke trying to make a special effort on him.  With others, he was still snappy, and distrustful.  Therefore, unless he brought up Varania first, Hawke would avoid that topic as best she could.

The ”party” really was just a massive amount of food and alcohol, as it was every year.  Chicken, mutton, ham.  Variously freshly harvested vegetables cooked in various ways.  Two cakes – two! - three pies, and plenty of candies she had brought in specially from Orlais and Antiva.  Ales, beers, rum, wines, and special punches.  She had spent a fortune alone on alcohol and hoped it would be enough.  This was nothing in comparison to Satinalia balls and parties, but there were less than a dozen people here, and more intimate than other All Soul’s Day feasts around the city. 

It was, in a way, similar to most of their friendly gatherings in The Hanged Man.  Casual eating and drinking.  Card games and gambling, and talking.  But, one by one, they each withdrew and grew quiet, and then returned and called for a toast, and everyone toasted in turn.

“As always, for Father, Mother, and Bethany,” Hawke said, the first to go, as usual.

“Malcolm, Leandra, Bethany,” came the chorused reply.  Of all of them, only Aveline knew Bethany, and then only for a few short days as they escaped Lothering, but it was good of them to toast to her memory.

And Aveline was next.  “To Wesley.”  It was always short and simple, and Donnic was always there for her.  Hawke supposed she kept the long-buried grief of loss of her father and mother closely, in a different place.

“To Wesley.”

Anders came third.  “Karl.”  Everyone raised whatever they had at the time.

“Karl,” they murmured, even Fenris.  All Soul’s Day was not about politics, or animosities, not in Hawke’s house.

Varric, as was his custom, made a long speech that left most of them in tears of laughter, but always ended with a toast to his mother and father.

“May Tamlen and Lyna never be forgotten,” Merrill said, sometime later.  The Dalish did not traditionally celebrate All Soul’s Day, but Merrill was one of theirs.

After she had gotten drunk enough, Isabela toasted the Siren’s Call and her lost virginity, which brought levity back.  Most of them were certain her virginity was something she was happy to have lost, but Isabela was loathed to take anything seriously.

Merrill was the first to pass out, curled up by the fire roaring in the sitting room.  Hawke got her a blanket to cover up with, and did the same with Varric when he passed out on the sofa.  Aveline and Donnic left shortly after, and that was when Hawke discovered Anders and Isabela otherwise “occupied.”  She shouted “Good night!” at them through the door, mildly surprised that Anders was acting so normal (i.e. no rants about mages or mage rights), and that left Fenris nearly drunk enough to pass out.

“Fenris,” she said, sing-song, and helping him stand up,  “you’re going to sleep here tonight.”

“With you, Marian,” he slurred, a sloppy smile on his face.  “I’ll sleep with you.”

“Sure.  You ready for your bed?”

He closed one eye, to better focus on her.  “You’re not drunk!” he accused.  “Scandal!”

“I’m not that drunk yet,” she agreed, trying to coax him into walking with her towards the guest rooms.

“We didn’t toast my mother,” He said, pulling her close, hands roaming over her back.  Hawke sighed.  Drunk, moody, _horny_ Fenris.  _Oh joy_.

“We’ll do that tomorrow,” she promised.

“Why are we going to the guest rooms?”  He stopped and tugged on her tunic.

“You need to get to bed, Fenris,” she replied.

“With _you_ , Marian,” he replied, with conviction.  Hawke huffed and rolled her eyes.

“Fine, we’ll go to my room, then.”

“You’re a beautiful woman,” he said, suddenly, his tone somewhat morose.  “And you like me.”

“Half-right,” she replied, off-handedly.

“You—don’t like me?”

“I’m not beautiful.”  That was Bethany.  “I’m just average.  But I do like you.”  They were halfway to her room now.  Maker, she should have drunk more.

“You’re _my_ beautiful woman,” he said, although Fenris was slurring badly enough at that point that it was difficult for her to make out exactly what it was he was saying.

“You need to go to sleep, Fenris.  You’re going to hate yourself in the morning.  Or, rather, later today.”

He turned to her and cupped her face almost shyly, leaning in close to her as if for a kiss.  Hawke gave him mercy and kissed him quickly, then patted his spiky pauldron.

“Fenris, off with the armor.”

“You’re going to sleep with me?”  Again he closed one eye to focus, swaying slightly.

“I can’t sleep with you if you’re wearing your armor,” Hawke said, evasively.  Fenris made an appreciative sound and started unbuckling his gauntlets in a most clumsy fashion while Hawke helped undo the clasps at his back.  His armor was very simple and lightweight, easy for him to phase with, and it only took a few minutes to get it off him and put neatly away.

Hawke got him a plain tunic and linen pants to change into while she washed up, but came back to find him asleep with the pants on his head and the tunic discarded.  Another eye roll, a tsk, and she roused him enough to get him into bed proper and then changed into some sleepwear for herself.  Hawke glanced at the bed, feeling a strong compulsion to sleep next to Fenris.  He had seemed fairly adamant about “sleeping with” her before passing out, but she decided to write that off as the alcohol talking and sighed before finally going to sleep in one of the guest rooms.

Blessed Orana had willowbark and elfroot tea brewed for everyone in the morning, along with either plain porridge, chicken broth, or bread for whomever was interested.  Most of the guests didn’t wake up until nearing noon, and Hawke awoke hungover despite the relatively little she had to drink.  Fenris was the last one to drag himself down, re-dressed and refusing to look at her or say more than three words at a time.

Anders seemed vaguely horrified that he had slept with Isabela, but Hawke privately thought it would do him some good to have something for fun that didn’t involve staying up all night writing manifestos.  For one thing, Anders seemed obsessed with Hawke, in love with the idea of her and mistaking it for actual love, so maybe getting some affection elsewhere would cool that ardor.  For her part, Isabela seemed self-satisfied and vaguely amused, and less hungover even than Hawke.  She must, Hawke decided, have a couple of bottomless legs.  Or perhaps it was all that breast space.

She pressed leftovers from the previous night into everyone’s hands except Fenris’s, knowing that _of course_ they could afford their own food while still feeling a compulsion to feed them all the same.  Fenris seemed less hungover than broody and mainly kept to himself, drinking tea that must have cooled by now and holding on to a piece of the bread, although Hake wasn’t certain if his stomach was just tender or if he had forgotten it.  At most, he glanced towards her every now and then, his eyes hidden under his shaggy white bangs, and she couldn’t make out much of an expression on his face, although he radiated something negative.

Hawke left him to stew, instead choosing to help Bodahn and Orana clean up from the previous day.  Dishes to wash, spills to clean, bedclothes to launder; Hawke lost herself in the simplicity of moving from one task to another, putting her house back together with efficiency.

In truth, by the time dark was rolling around, Hawke had forgotten that Fenris hadn’t left, so caught up in her chores was she, until she was making another trip through the library to carry wood for the heart and he said her name.  She startled and dropped the armful of wood she was carrying, her eyes going wide as she looked around for him.

He was standing against the wall, arms folded over his chest, head high andh watching her with a slightly pained expression.

“Fenris!” she exclaimed, touching her hand to her chest in shock.  “I thought you had left.”

“I did not,” he said, simply.  Hawke bent down to start gathering the wood back up, brows knitted in irritation.

“Did you want dinner?  It’s just more leftovers,” she started.

“Why did you not sleep in your bed?” he asked, roughly.  Hawke paused for a moment and looked up at him.

“You wanted to sleep there,” she said, finally, slightly confused.

“I wanted,” he said, pointedly, “to sleep with you.”  She simply shook her head and deposited the wood in the basket where such things went.  “Marian.”

She made no response.

“ _Fasta vass_ ,” Fenris cursed, scowling.  “You are more than free meals to me, Marian.”

Hawke rubbed her temples and hid her sigh.  “You’re hungover, Fenris.  Go to the cellar and find some wine and we’ll have it with dinner, and you can stay over again if you wish.”

“Well, I _do_ wish,” he snapped, and stomped out of the room, no small feat for his bare feet.  Hawke made a mental note to brew more of the medicinal tea, because she could feel her head starting to pound with a renewed headache.

Fenris went through dinner like a man who felt he had something to prove.  Each bite seemed deliberately defiant, and he drank the wine as if it were water, winding up nearly as drunk by the end of the meal as he had been the night before.     

Hawke tried to get him to accept a guest bed, but he yelled something incoherent at her and marched straight-ish for her bedroom, calling over his shoulder that he _was_ going to sleep with her, damn it all.

He passed out fairly quickly once they were both in her bed, although he only passed out after clinging to her and kissing on her most oddly, and patting her hair.  Hawke decided, then, that someone else could host All Soul’s Day next year, because she had enough of this new, crazy drunk Fenris to last a lifetime.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knight Commander Meredith requests Hawke's presence.

He was, Fenris decided, as he nursed his second consecutive day of hangover, a coward, and quite tired of being a coward.

Intellectually, Fenris knew some of the problems he had with talking about his feelings were because of how long he had trained, or been trained, to be more precise, to not _demonstrate_ said feelings.  He had been in Hawke’s crew for nearly seven years now and was only just comfortable enough to discuss how he felt with her, not to mention to let himself feel it was okay to feel around her.  Feelings, is the point of what he was trying to make himself think about, and especially those revolving around Hawke.

But even with the level of comfort he had now, Fenris still had issues talking to her about what he wanted –namely, _her._

He had gotten drunker than he meant to on All Soul’s Day.  Not that he had expected much, but he did wish to explain to her how he felt, in a little better detail than before, and express a desire to have a more… physical… relationship than they currently did.  Unfortunately, that seemed to come out only in declarations that he wanted to sleep with her: hardly his most shining romantic moment.

The next day she seemed to be working to avoid him, going about chores that the servants could have done, and when he finally got her alone, he tripped over his own tongue and took his anger at his own stupidity out on her.  Then, nervousness caused him to down too much wine, and… And, truly, he was lucky to wake up in her home again, he thought.  She was already awake, but he could still faintly smell her apple scent on the other pillow, which meant she _had_ slept next to him, at least.

Bathed and dressed again, he found her at the desk in her study, frowning over correspondence.  She glanced up at him, smiling warmly, before turning a fierce frown on the piece of paper she held.

“Meredith is _commanding_ my presence,” she exclaimed, voice thick with indignation.

“Not without me,” he growled.  Fenris approved of templars in general, and disapproved of the Knight-Commander in specific.  Combined with a fear for Hawke’s well-being (aka Fear of Tranquility that equaled Anders’s fear of the rite, when it applied to Hawke, at least) and Meredith was lucky she still drew breath.  Fenris did not play games with Marian Hawke’s well-being.

“I can’t ignore the summons,” she said, sighing.  “We could spend days plotting how to kill her, but even an apostate Champion obeys a summons to the Knight Commander.”  She let Fenris scan the short letter.  Addressed to the Champion, it requested her presence, nothing more.

“I do not think this is a trap,” he said, slowly.

“Neither do I.  A job, perhaps?”

“Perhaps.”  But he was wary.

“Then you, me, Varric, and Aveline?”

Fenris nodded.  “Anyone but Anders, really.”

“For several reasons,” she muttered, scanning the parchment once more, as if it would give further clues as to what she wanted.  “At my convenience.  Tomorrow after midday, then.  Don’t let me forget.”

“Send a reply,” he suggested.  “And bring Isabela and Sebastian, too, even if they only loiter in the courtyard.”

Hawke smirked slightly.  “You’re so devious.  You always think everything is a trap.”

“Of course I think everything is a trap,” he scoffed.  “It’s why I’m still alive.”

“Clever man,” she murmured, writing down the appointment and a quick reply to send via Bodahn.

The next hour was spent going over the correspondence, Hawke asking his thoughts now and again, him just watching her work otherwise.  She had already mentioned wanting to go out and catch breakfast from one of the street vendors (“But not that new man in Lowtown.  What was his name?  Dabbler?  Dribbler?  Those sausages in a bun were the worst!”) and it looked like another day spent together, which pleased Fenris no small amount.  Days spent with Hawke were almost always good days, in his opinion.

Breakfast found, errands ran, lunch discovered, supplies procured for Anders’s clinic, a stop by to check on Aveline (and Donnic): Hawke kept them busy, a side of the Champion most were unaware of.  At one point they picked up Merrill, and Hawke helped her buying some groceries while Fenris was just content to be along, blood mage or no.

At one point, Hawke turned to him, flipping an errant strand of hair out of her face, smiling vaguely.  “Are you sure you’re not bored?” she asked.

“I enjoy following you,” he answered, and she just continued smiling and patted him on the chest fondly.  Merrill had giggled and Fenris blushed to the tips of his ears when he realized how what he had said actually sounded.  It was true and accurate, but _not in front of the blood mage!_

Hawke invited Merrill to dinner, and Fenris decided to spend dinner by himself that night, at his mansion.  He detested the blood mage almost as much as the abomination and he also did not want to presume on Hawke’s hospitality too much.  She actually did seem disappointed when he bid her farewell, but he got a kiss out of it and was therefore in a position to decide it was a “win” overall.

However, his mansion seemed especially lonely that evening, cold and boring and empty.  He was getting used to living around people again, when he stayed with Hawke: Orana and her cooking that reminded him so of Minrathous; Bodahn and his friendly, easy manner; Sandal’s openness and childlike joy.  Even Weezl seemed nearly like a person, able to express so much with his eyes, always begging for treats.

Compared to the warmth and friendliness he always experienced around Hawke, his mansion was like a cold tomb, a remembrance of a slave-Fenris who had been dead for ten years.  How old was he, anyway?  Closer to thirty, or forty?  He felt a moment of panic; what if he asked her to marry him and she refused because he was too old?  Or because he didn’t know?

Fenris slept poorly that night, beset with loneliness and worry, and he was over at Hawke’s estate hours earlier than necessary, bringing with him fresh-baked cherry tarts.  The grin on her face when she smelled them was enough to perk Fenris up out of his bad mood, and the quick kiss was enough to make his stomach flutter in an odd manner that he kind of enjoyed.

More errands, before Hawke gathered her crew to go meet with the Knight Commander. 

Fenris hated it when she went to the Gallows, because there was always the fear that, even with him there, Hawke was never coming back.  It surprised him, sometimes, how deeply he had come to care for a mage, and rely on her magics.

So each time they came into the Gallows, he was at his most alert, his most paranoid.  He mentally mapped out the exact locations of templar guards, what the best emergency exits were, took special notice of what vendors were out where.  He refused to let her go to the Gallows without at least three others, including one of the rogues and Aveline.  He would not lose her, not to the Gallows and the templars.  Fenris was created to be a mage’s bodyguard and, if it meant keeping _her_ safe, he would step into that role again and again, regardless of how it chaffed.

Varric was always better to bring, over Isabela or Sebastian.  Isabela was too bored to pay proper attention and Sebastian was in love with the idea of the Chantry, too in love to see any threats for what they were.  Varric, however, would listen and discern, file away information and observations, freeing up Fenris to keep to the background and observe properly, ready to strike if needed.  Aveline was always good to have there because the Captain of the Guard accompanying the Champion seemed to overshadow her status as apostate and gave her presence there a legitimacy it required.

So far, Knight Commander Meredith had made no moves to arrest or subdue Hawke.  Indeed, the woman had held Hawke up repeatedly as a good example for her fellow mages –using magic to serve and protect the citizens, and only at need, with great control over her willpower, never turning to the darker forms.  Answerable to the Guard-Captain and templars, of course, but still, she truly had made no moves to threaten Hawke.

That did not mean she wasn’t able to, however, thus Fenris’s high levels of paranoia and his extreme vigilance when they went there.  And the dark scowls directed at any templars who looked at her for too long, even if they were obviously only admiring her face and curves.  That was nearly as bad as the other; Hawke was _his_.

One of the few things every member of Hawke’s band of merry misfits could agree on, even Sebastian, was that none of them cared much for the Knight Commander.  It ranged from “dislike,” in Sebastian’s case, to “hate with the fiery hate of ten million suns dipped in gaatlok and seasoned with Antivan fire grenades” for Anders, but even with palpable dislike, Hawke stood there in front of Meredith, courteously listening to her request, asking questions politely but with a hint of friendly humor in an attempt to put the Knight Commander at ease.  Hawke always went out of her way to be polite to someone trying to hire her on for a job, even if that someone was a person she detested.

“And… you believe that _I_ can track down these three mages better than you, or your templars, Knight Commander?”  Even Hawke could not keep the incredulity from her voice this time.

“I believe, Champion, that you can make the hard decisions necessary when you are able to find them,” Meredith responded in her clipped accent.  “It is your duty to protect the city, is it not?  The people will see the cooperation between their apostate Champion and the templars and put more trust in us.  Hopefully, this will lessen some of the tensions.”

A glance at Hawke’s face told Fenris that Hawke wasn’t buying it.  However, the woman didn’t get to where she was by being gullible or stupid.  She kept the sociable smile the entire time, nodding at the right places, making noises of affirmation where needed.

“By all means,” she said, when the Knight Commander had worn down her ranting speech.  “It would be my honor to help search for these apostates.”  Meredith was a fool, Fenris thought; she heard only what Hawke wanted her to hear from that.  Hawke _would_ search for the missing mages, and then she would get them out of the city, with contacts for where to go next.  Fenris disapproved, because mages could not be trusted, but she did the same with anyone she considered an escaped slave, and Hawke considered Kirkwall’s circle to be like the slave gallows of old, even if she did not agree with Anders about all circles being as bad.

“My assistant has all the details,” Meredith told her, then escorted them to a small courtyard, not quite a garden, where a young Tranquil girl waited.

It was good that Meredith left them alone, then, because Hawke lost some of her composure.  She lost most of it, actually, barely making it to the bushes in the little garden before she started vomiting and crying.  Fenris stood there, in shock at her reaction, until Aveline gave him a shove and Varric gave him a dark look, then jerked his head pointedly to where Hawke was on her hands and knees, being sick.

He had _no idea_ what he was supposed to do, but walked slowly towards her, anyway, and knelt down beside her, one hand rubbing her back, the other holding her hair out of the way.  He could hear the Tranquil woman speaking with Aveline and Varric while Hawke dry-heaved and sobbed beside him. 

Finally, she sat up and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.  She took her water flask and cleaned her mouth out, swishing and spitting the water out, before saying, “I’d rather die than be made Tranquil.”  She stoppered the flask, refusing to look at him.  “If they ever… if I am made Tranquil, you must kill me.”

“I’m not going to kill you, Hawke.”

“You have to!”  She looked at him then and her eyes were wide, hysterical.  “Don’t make me live that way.  If you love me, Fenris….”  Tears streamed down her face and she clutched at one gauntleted hand with both of hers.  “Promise me.”

“Hawke—“

“ _Promise me!_ ”

Fenris took a deep breath before he gently cupped her cheek with his free hand.  “I will do everything I can to keep you from being made Tranquil,” he promised her.  “And if the worst happens, I will end it.”

Hawke collapsed against him, near-boneless, very obviously trying to hold back sobs.  Fenris felt doubly awkward, due to the location, but he whispered nonsense Tevene to her as he rubbed her back, and Hawke wound down quickly.

Aveline and Varric waited until she pulled away from him and wiped her eyes before approaching, neither of them mentioning what happened.

“I’ve got all the info, Hawke,” Aveline said, using her no-nonsense voice of command.  “Buy me one of those sausages in a bun from that… Drabbler, Dribbler?  Whoever, and I’ll fill you in.”

“Dabbler?” Fenris asked, helping Hawke to her feet.  “I’m not one to turn down free food,” he said, making his tone light, “but don’t buy me anything from that guy again.”

“You’re such a food snob,” she replied, sniffling.

“Not really.  I just prefer dysentery to taste better.”  Hawke nudged him playfully and managed a sort of watery smile, and Fenris took her hand for a moment and squeezed it gently.  _I am here for you_ , he told her, silently.  _I am yours._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awww, that one didn't end up being funny at all. I'll try to do better next time.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emile is an idiot.

Three escaped mages, three different types of backgrounds.

They started in Lowtown, in the alienage there.  The alienage was Merrill’s demesne, and so Hawke stopped by to bring her along and introduce them to the wife of the first escaped mage.  Huon and Nyssa had only been married a short time when the templars raided and took him, and now Nyssa was technically married and nearly a social pariah.

Luckily, she and Merrill were on friendly enough terms, and Hawke found out that Huon was set to return to the alienage that night.

“You seem afraid, Nyssa,” Hawke said, gently.  “Of me?  Or the templars?”

Nyssa darted a glance towards the alienage steps, then sighed and looked down.  “Huon,” she finally whispered.

“Did he hurt you?  Or use blood magic?”

“Would she know blood magic if she saw it?” Fenris asked.

“He didn’t hurt me,” she said.  “And I don’t know if he used magic on me, any kind of magic.  He said he would come back tonight, and he would give me everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Fenris scoffed.  “They always say the same things.”  Hawke shot him a look, brows drawn down.  She would not try telling him to be quiet, so—Oh.  She was reminding him of their conversation on “tact.”  Well, perhaps he _had_ been a bit…tactless…there.

“Nyssa, I will come back tonight to help protect you,” Hawke said, turning back to the elven woman.  She seemed even younger than Hawke, and to have been married for ten years to a husband who had been taken from her so soon?  Yes, he should have used more tact earlier.  He would remember for next time.  Knowing the kinds of things Hawke got into, there would be a next time.

“Thank you, thank you!” the woman said, taking Hawke’s hands.  Hawke gave her a smile and squeezed her hands in return.

“Then I shall see you tonight,” she said, and they tromped out of Lowtown.

“The de Launcets are next,” Aveline said.  “It’s late enough that they should be at home in Hightown already.  We interview them about Emile, and see where we go from there.”

“Maker,” Hawke sighed, suddenly standing still and knuckling her back.  “I hope that Huon isn’t a blood mage.  But whatever he did, he frightened that poor woman enough that she asked a ‘shem’ for protection.”

“You’re no ordinary shem,” Merrill said, her voice pipping up chipperly.  “You’re the Champion.  You’ve helped elves in this city more than anyone else has, and you openly court Fenris as an equal.  You’re a near hero to some in the alienage!”

Hawke went more red in the face than Fenris had ever seen her, and he knew he, himself, was blushing to the tips of his ears.  Bad enough, that the nobles were gossiping about their relationship, but Lowtown…?  On second thought, if the alienage elves were openly approving of it, that was one-up on the snobs in Hightown who saw elves as servants and little more.  He had overheard more than one conversation about how Hawke should keep him “in the bedroom, not on the streets” like everyone else did.  Bloody racists.

“Well,” Hawke finally managed, still sounding somewhat choked.  “He is pretty good looking.  I’d be envious, too, if I weren’t me.”

“Oh yes,” Merrill agreed, smiling.  “Fenris has quite the following of admirers in the alienage.”  He was truly hoping that the Maker would open the ground up and swallow him down, now.

Hawke shot him a grin.  “I’m afraid I’ve got first dibs,” she said playfully.  Even Varric and Aveline looked amused at the tone the conversation had taken.

Fenris brushed dirt from a gauntlet and checked his feet before muttering, “We should move on.”  Admirers, eh?  It would be more amusing if it weren’t so sad.  The elves needed real heroes to look up to, not escaped slaves who were not much more than mercenaries.

Hawke simply chuckled at him and slipped her hand into his for a moment.  Fenris gave her a lsight smile, the barest quirking of his lips, and gently squeezed her hand in return.

“So, the de Launcets, and then dinner, and then back to the alienage later, to be there for Nyssa when Huon arrives,” Hawke said, laying out the plans for the evening.

“I have to skip out after this,” Aveline said.  “I need to get to the barracks for inspection.  And paperwork.”  The last two words were said in a disgusted tone; Aveline hated paperwork.

“Then we’ll pick up Isabela and Anders,” Hawke said, decisively.  “We can’t be a man down, going into an unknown situation like tonight is sure to be.”

“Poor Nyssa,” Merrill lamented.  “It’s too bad that the hahren didn’t annul her marriage.  She’s basically had to fend for herself and be alone these last ten years.”

“Do you know why he didn’t?” Hawke asked.

“No, they don’t tell me much,” Merrill answered.  “But Nyssa and I are generally friendly, and I knew that much about it.”

Hawke frowned, brows drawn down in concern.  He could see the thoughts in her head as they played out on her face –concern for the woman, irritation with the hahren, anger with the templars, grim determination to help, anger with herself for not doing more, not being more than she already was, Fenrus suspected; she would probably be making extra effort towards the alienage soon, including spending more time with Merrill and extra time and effort soliciting donations from the nobility to set up a small clinic or a food pantry.  He knew her too well to not know that determination, to not know how strong her sense of duty was.

It was just starting to get dark when Hawke knocked, loudly, on the de Launcet door.  They were asked to wait, and had been waiting for the better part of an hour when Dulci de Launcet finally came down the massive staircase and greeted them.  Or, rather, she greeted Hawke and Aveline, pointedly ignoring Varric and dismissing the two elves as servants, regardless of the rumors about Hawke running about with a white-haired elf who wielded a sword nigh on as big as he himself.  Dulci knew quite well that Fenris was her lover, and he accepted the dismissal with only a bit of galling irritation.  Merrill ignored it, seemingly oblivious to the intended insult.

_Or perhaps it wasn’t intentional_ , he thought, listening to the de Launcet woman natter on in her annoying Orlesian accent.  Hawke and Aveline were seated in the sitting room and Dulci was going on about what a good boy Emile de Launcet was, and how he certainly would turn himself in to the templars any day now.

_A good boy_ , he thought disdainfully.  _Good enough to destroy his phylactery and escape the Circle_.  Still, the woman prattled on, oblivious to the growing fake smile Hawke had plastered on her lips, or the dark, growing frown on Aveline’s face.

A garishly dressed man entered the room and started berating the woman in front of everyone, obviously unaware, or perhaps uncaring, of the guests.  He laid into her for giving “the boy” some money, yelling at the top of his lungs that the templars would find him.  Dulci de Launcet paled, her eyes going wide.

“Guillarme, darling!” she spoke loudly.

“Do not ‘darling’ me, Dulci.  Do you know what you’ve done?”

“ _Guillarme, darling_ , we have guests!” she cried, desperately.  Guillarme de Launcet finally seemed to notice their group, then.  Hawke smiled brightly.

“By all means, don’t stop on my account.  This is fascination!”

A half hour of awkward, Orlesian-themed apologies and discussion led them to being told that Emile was currently at The Hanged Man, and Guillarme de Launcet assured Hawke and Aveline that if they only hurried, they could catch him up and get him back to the templars before he did something even more foolish.

“The Hanged Man!”  To the side, Dulci had been breaking down, having fits.  “Oh, Guillarme, no!  That place is filthy!”

“I’m more worried about the Comtesse,” Hawke told Guillarme, eyeing the woman.  “I’m afraid she’s going to pass out from all the horror soon.”

“Please, excuse my Dulci,” Comte de Launcet said, rolling his eyes.  “Her nature, it is so very delicate, yes?  But if you will excuse us, I will get her to bed and you can catch up to that idiot boy and save him from himself.”

The Comte led Dulci away while the woman swooned, and Hawke shook her head and rolled her shoulders slightly, obviously exasperated.

“The Hanged Man!  It is so filthy!” Varric said, in a badly-mocked Orlesian accent.

“It _is_ filthy,” Fenris said, truthfully.

“You didn’t use the accent,” Varric complained.  “It’s the accent that makes it funny.”

“We’re not going to send him back to the Circle, are we, Hawke?” Merrill asked, concerned.  “Mages should be free.”  Hawke closed her eyes for a moment, obviously irritated.

“I don’t know what we’ll do until we’re in the situation, Merrill.  If he’s a blood mage, we can’t trust him to show the restraint you show.  If he’s dangerous…. We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it, shall we?”

“Don’t you mean, ‘cross that bridge’?” Aveline asked.

“How long have you known me, Aveline?  With my luck, they’ll be burned and the earth salted no matter what I want.”

* * *

They made a quick stop in Darktown to pick up Anders, in case this Emile was dangerous and they needed a third mage.  He would also be there to help them later if Huon turned out to be dangerous, too, or if it was just going to be another typical night in Lowtown.

When they arrived at The Hanged Man, Emile de Launcet was surprisingly easy to pick out.  He had the same fashion sense as most circle mages did: a terrible one.  Even Fenris took offense at the man’s clothing, and Fenris typically work all black, nearly skin-tight armor that wasn’t exactly the first off the rack during the season.  Hawke made a choked sound as she took in the orange monstrosity the man was wearing and Merrill started giggling about his terrible haircut.

“You want to arrest somebody?” Anders addressed Aveline.  “Arrest him for crimes against fashion.”

“You’re one to talk, mage,” Fenris snarled, but he almost agreed with Anders, which is why the temperature in the tavern had dropped so dramatically.

“You’re both… not wrong,” Hawke said, shaking her head.  She straightened  her skirts over her hips and went over to where the man was nearly passed out, drunk.

“Emile de Launcet?” she asked, loudly to be heard over the din of the tavern.  He lifted his head shakily and opened one eye, trying hard to focus on Hawke.

“Are you a mage?” he asked, drunkenly.  “Because you just magicked my breath away.”

Fenris couldn’t even find it in himself to be jealous.  Even Bad Poet groaned, and Isabela sauntered over to join them.

“I thought you had better taste, Hawke,” she said, smirking.  “Dark and broody is so much sexier than orange and pathetic.”

“I’m not looking for a date, thanks,” she told both of them, grimacing and rolling her eyes.  “I _am_ looking for a man named Emile de Launcet.  And here he is, what a coincidence!”

Emile suddenly looked a lot more sober.  “I’m not really a blood mage!” he squeaked.  “I just started that rumor to…” he finished it out, mumbling.

“I’m sorry,” Hawke said, incredulously.  “Did you just tell me you’ve been telling people you’re a blood mage so that you could sound suave and dangerous and get women?

“You bloody idiot!” Anders yelled, stepping forward.  “You grew up in the circle, you know what happens with those kinds of rumors!”

“You can’t be serious,” Hawke said, sounding bemused.

“I wanted to seem suave and dangerous so that women would like me,” Emile said, plaintively. He held up his hands, looking for all the world like an innocent fool.  “I have lived in the circle for twenty years.  It’s a prison there.  I’ve never gotten to cook my own meal, or dance in the rain.”  He gave Hawke a lingering look of longing.  “Never kissed a girl…”

Hawke helped up a hand to stop him.  “you escaped the Circle to come here and tell lies about being a blood mage so you can _kiss a girl_?!”

Emile waggled his bushy, orange eyebrows in what, Fenris supposed, was meant to be a seductive manner.  “Not just kissing,” he said, leering.  “There are so many things I’ve heard you can do with girls…”

He was too full of pity to even feel jealousy or anger at the insinuation towards his Hawke.  “The mage must be toying with us,” he managed to say.  “He makes himself out to be pathetic in order to appear harmless.”

Anders shook his head, face sad.  “You didn’t grow up in the circle.  He really is that pathetic.  Although,” he added, thoughtfully, “Kinloch Hold was a lot more fun.  Everyone was kissing everyone.”

“Maybe nobody wants to kiss him because of his hair!” Merrill piped up, helpfully.

“And that…. ‘mustache,’” Isabela added.

“And the orange clothes to match the orange hair,” Varric put in.  He quickly placated Aveline with “It looks good on you, though!”  Aveline snorted and shifted her weapons, which signaled all the others to shift their weapons, too.  Emile looked alarmed at that; the other patrons of the tavern looked amused.  Hawke and friends™ were always good for free entertainment with their drinks.

Finally, Hawke sighed and covered the top part of her face with her left hand, her right hand akimbo on her hip.  “Listen, Emile, you’re not going to last a full week outside the circle, at this rate.”

“But--!”

“Hear me out!” she shouted, hitting the table with the hand that had been on her face.  “You are an idiot and you need to go back to the circle.  Otherwise, the templars will catch you and not be half as kind as I am being.”

She turned to Isabela, who quirked a brow and started shaking her head.

“No, ’Bela.  Just…. Take him to the Rose and get him a shave and a haircut and a girl, and drop him back at the Circle tomorrow.  And I’ll pay you back and owe you one.”

Isabela slipped her arm around the stupid man.  “What do you say, sweet thing?  I’ll introduce you to some fine ladies before you go back.”

“And… I can kiss them?”

“For fifty silvers an hour, why not?”  Isabela steered Emile out of the tavern, rolling her eyes back at Hawke.

“Let’s just hope this Huon is that stupid,” Hawke muttered, rolling her shoulders again.  Fenris resisted the urge to reach out for her; The Hanged Man was too public for him to feel very comfortable displaying affection yet, and Hawke looked tense enough that she might even snap at him for trying.

“We’ve got a couple of hours until time to meet Nyssa,” Varric told her.  “Wicked Grace and dinner in my ‘palatial suite’?”

“You drive a hard bargain, Varric,” Hawke told him, pasting on a smile for Varric’s benefit.  “Put it on your tab and I’ll fleece you for a few sovereigns.”

“You?  Best _me_?”  Varric laughed and led the way up the stairs to his suite.  “Perish the thought, Hawke.”

“You think I can’t out bluff you?”  Fenris followed them, with Merrill and Anders, as Aveline said her goodbyes for the evening.

“You can try,” Varric laughed.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke gets a boo-boo.

“There simply can’t be any wretched Followers of She left here in Lowtown,” Hawke panted, wiping a smear of blood off her cheek.  It matched the red swipe of kaddis paint across the bridge of her nose that was her custom to wear in battle.  Fenris thought it made her look like a wild Ferelden barbarian queen when she was in battle.  It gave him Ideas.

“At least we cleaned those Dog Logs out,” Merrill replied, helpfully.  “Their dogs were not at all friendly, like Weezl is.”  Said mabari barked happily and then ripped an arm off one of the dead Followers.  Merrill smiled and gave him a mabari crunch.

“I doubt we’ll ever see the end of these stupid gangs,” Hawke said, sourly.  They had all reached the “looting the corpses” stage of the battle, but most of these corpses had been poor men in life to begin with, and that carried on over to their deaths.

“Does anyone need Healing?” Anders asked, in general.  Fenris did, truthfully, but he would only accept Healing from Hawke, and usually only in private.  Her Healing, especially lately, was too… arousing… for him to accept it around others except under the gravest of circumstances, and since he was sure nothing was broken –a pulled muscle in his left bicep, perhaps, and a cut that came alarmingly close to his right eye—or incapacitating him, he did not speak up.

Aveline had come back to join them, bringing Weezl along with her.  Hawke’s mabari routinely trained with the city guard, and Aveline was thinking about getting an adult bitch to breed him to, with the idea of having mabari to back up the guards.  She was getting her men 9and women) used to the idea by having Weezl there as often as Hawke would allow it, and most of them seemed pleased with the idea.

“I’m glad you still take the time out to do this, Hawke,” Aveline said, as she ran a rag down her blade, getting the worst of the blood off.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Hawke asked, absently, adding a plucked coin purse to the communal one she carried.  “These assholes attack us, too.”

“D’you think this is where their lair might be?” Merrill asked, holding up a blood-splattered note.  Aveline took it and smiled in satisfaction as she scanned it.

“Good find, Merrill,” she told the Dalish, and Merrill positively beamed: Aveline was quite sparing with her praise, but especially so with the blood mage, whom she termed “stupid.”

“We’ll have to get them another night,” Hawke said, accepting the letter with a shake fo her head.  “Or later, if this meeting with Nyssa goes well.”

“I’m sure it will be fine,” Varric said, smoothly.  “What’s the worst that can go wrong?”

* * *

“’I’m sure it’ll be fine,’” Hawke shouted, her tone mocking, as she pivoted her body and twirled her staff, knocking the butt end of it into a shade.  “’What’s the worst that can go wrong?’” she yelled, holding her palm out and causing the shade to freeze from the resulting burst of ice.

“Hawke, not now!” Varric called, loading several more bolts into his crossbow, Bianca.

“That’s what she said,” Merrill added, helpfully.  “Hawke said, ‘not now,’ when—“

“We _know_ , Merrill,” Aveline growled, dodging a fireball from Huon and losing her sword in the process.

For his part, Fenris kept calm, focusing solely on the blood mage Huon.  He channeled all his rage into the moment, focusing completely on his target.  The cut near his eye was bleeding freely and his bicep was indeed strained, making it harder to lift the greatsword.  But he was determined to end this man, to stop him before he could harm Hawke or anyone else any further.

Suddenly, Huon sliced across his forearm with a delicate silver knife and crooked a finger at Hawke as he danced back; Hawke shouted in pain, her staff clattering to the ground, arms spread wide and back arching as she rose in the air.  Her head tilted back and she screamed, long and loud.

“Hawke!” Fenris shouted, and fought the instinct to run to her. “Anders, help Hawke!”  He had to focus on the mage in charge of the spell.  He had to take Huon out.  Fenris turned all his focus back onto the attacking blood mage, trying to get his focus off Hawke.  He knew Anders would see to her, or Merrill, even with the only Healing she could offer in the form of herbs, potions and poultices.

“Fenris, flanking!” Aveline shouted, and Fenris automatically adjusted position so that his attacks would stand less chance of hurting Aveline.  Nearly seven years of fighting together and training regularly and Hawke and Team™ fought well together, able to anticipate moves and strategies no matter who they were fighting or whom they were fighting with.

A dozen heartbeats later and Fenris’s greatsword had the man hamstrung, both feet nearly being taken off at once, and Aveline’s shield slammed into him.  Then her reclaimed short sword came around to halfway sever his neck, and the blood mage collapsed, blood bubbling out of his mouth and his blank, red eyes turning into blank, white eyes.  He collapsed into a boneless heap and Aveline drew her sword back only to swing it again and again, fully cutting through his neck on the fourth try.

“Bastard,” she spat.  Varric and Merrill were cleaning up the remaining handful of shades and Anders had Hake pulled up against a building.  Her eyes were closed, her mouth partly opened, and her head lolled to the side.  Fenris wasted no time in rushing to her side, letting his sword clatter to the pavement, echoing loudly in the empty night of the alienage.

“She’ll be okay,” Anders said, automatically.  “It was mainly as hock to her system, I think.  Her breathing is a little labored, but her heartbeat is strong.”

He wanted to touch her, to feel for himself, but Fenris refrained, settling for checking her over with his eyes.  Covered in blood and demon ichor, sweaty bangs sticking to her forehead… she was breathing hard, as Anders had said she would be, but did not otherwise show signs of distress.

“We should get her home,” he said, instead, his voice rough.  “I can carry her, if I must.  If she cannot walk.”  His arm would have to forgive him.

“Another ten minutes, and we’ll try to wake her,” Anders agreed.  “She’ll want a hot bath when she gets there.  I’ll go with you and heat it for her; I was already planning to see if I could use a guest room for the night.”

Fenris clenched his teeth in an effort to make no comment.  It was not his place to deny Anders and, he had to admit, the plan was sound.  If he were carrying Hawke, having Aveline and Anders both would give extra protection that they would almost certainly need.  And knowing her, she would want a hot bath upon arriving home and would either overextend herself or skip it rather than wake anyone seeking help.  The demon ichor itself would leave a rash if not washed off.

“Is she alright?” Merrill asked, coming towards the three of them along with Aveline and Varric.

“She’ll live,” Anders replied, sitting with his back against the wall beside Hawke.  “I’m guessing we’re not going to search for this ‘Evalina’ until tomorrow, though.”

“Go ahead on home, Merrill,” Varric said, gently.  “We’ll make sure Hawke gets home safely.”

“Come get me if you need me,” Merrill said, then glanced to where Nyssa lay, staring at the sky with sightless eyes.  “This was such a tragedy.  I hope Hawke doesn’t blame herself.”

“Perhaps you can learn a lesson from it,” Fenris said, roughly.  “See what blood magic made this man do to the woman he loved?”

Merrill shook her head, the beads on her braids clicking together.  “This was greed, not blood magic’s influence, Fenris.  Greed and madness.”

“There is no difference,” Fenris began, but Aveline punched him in the shoulder in warning.

“Not now, Fenris,” she said, her voice cold.  “Good night, Merrill,” she told the other woman pointedly.

“Good night, Aveline,” Merrill replied, just as chipper as usual.  Maker, nothing seemed to put the woman off her good mood for long.  She disappeared around the corner, headed for her little home nearby, just as Hawke blinked a few times, owlishly, her pupils huge in the faint magelight that Anders always summoned at night.

“What…?”

“The man, Huon, was a blood mage,” Anders told her quickly, shifting to check her vital signs.  “He had you in some sort of spell that knocked you out.  Sounded like it hurt like the void, too.”  He peered into her eyes, and then checked her pulse.

“Are you hurting?” Fenris asked, squatting down on her other side.

“Like a bitch,” she confessed.  “But I think I can walk home.  A hot bath and a full night’s sleep should put me back to rights.”

“If you’ll let me, Hawke, I’ll heat up the water for you and sleep in a guest room.  You need to save your mana even that much,” Anders said.

“Of course,” Hawke replied, still sounding a little dazed.

“I will stay with you as well, if you wish,” Fenris said, not to be outdone by Anders.

“How can I say no to that?” she laughed lightly, but looked pained, and touched her head briefly.  “Maybe a healing potion, too, and some willowbark tea before I go to sleep.”

“Do you want more Healing?” Anders asked her, voice full of concern.  Aveline helped Hawke to her feet while Varric gathered up the small bag of loot they had gathered for re-sale.

“Maybe,” Hawke told him, apologetically.  “My head hurts something awful and I’m tired as all get out, but sleep might not be very restful, how I am now.”

“Do you want food?” Fenris asked, handing over his hip flask.  Just water in it, this time, but Hawke smiled gratefully and drank it down greedily.

“Not right now.  Andraste’s ass, you’re all acting like I’ve never been injured before,” she fussed, but her eyes were still tight.

“Then let’s get you home,” Aveline told her, taking point.  “That way you can rest up for tomorrow, and finding that third apostate.”  Hawke groaned.

“I don’t wanna,” she mock-whined.  “Let the templars find her!”

“Hawke, you don’t mean that!” Anders gasped, horrified.  “Maker, what if she’s some stupid innocent like the de Launcet boy was?”

“When have we ever been that lucky?” Hawke grumped, leaning on her staff and limping as she followed Aveline.

* * *

It was a good thing, Fenris decided, that Hawke was conscious.  Otherwise, he might have killed Anders solely based on the fact that the abomination was an irritating asshole who must exist only to irritate Fenris and try to see Hawke in various stages of undress.

That was Fenris’s private thoughts, at any rate.

On the plus side, Fenris himself got to see her fully undressed, fi only for a moment, as he helped her into the steaming hot tub.  Of course, Hawke being as she was, at the moment, apologized to him profusely and promised him it wouldn’t happen again, but Fenris chose to focus more on the positive aspects of the night.  Not that “wet, naked Marian Hawke” made up for “surprise blood mage attack that seriously injured her,” but Isabela always told him to stop living in the past.

He chose out one of her few nightgowns for her to change into, and turned absolutely red as a tomato when getting her clean smallclothes, while Anders fixed tea and made up a simple sleeping draught from the stock Hawke kept around her home.

She accepted Healing before Anders retired, and insisted that Fenris got his own bath as she drank up the tea and sleeping draught, then curled up beside him in her large bed and fell asleep rather quickly, looking so peaceful and comfortable in the dying firelight that Fenris dare not move for fear of disturbing her.  At least she hadn’t told him to go home, or insisted that he sleep in one of the guest rooms.  In fact, she hadn’t even suggested it, which was something she normally always did when he stayed over, even if he never actually slept in any of them.

The next morning, breakfast was a chipper, comfortable affair, even with the abomination there.  Fenris had to give the man a little credit—he was a good Healer, and Hawke woke right as raindrops, according to her.  Anders also took time out to see to Bodahn’s complaints of aching joints and a small burn Orana had gotten from cooking the other day, treating them both as if they were as important as any other patient he had.

Fenris may have detested the man, for a number of reasons, including Anders’s unhidden want of the woman Fenris already had, but he was a compassionate, caring man when playing the Healer and it was little wonder why Hawke remained friends with him all these years, foolish though she could be.

“Orana, you’re getting awfully good at cooking these Ferelden dishes,” Hawke told her, warmly.

“I appreciate you teaching me, Mistress,” Orana said, shyly smiling and lowering her eyes.

“Hawke,” Hawke said, automatically.

“Mistress Hawke,” Orana said in return.  It was a dance three years old, and sometimes Fenris wondered if Orana didn’t follow the steps simply for the interaction.

“So we are traipsing through Darktown today,” Fenris said to Hawke, in between bites of his strange biscuit-gravy-sausage dish.  Hawke creative named it “biscuits and gravy” but it was a strange sort of gravy to Fenris’s mind, white and thick and only used by her for this particular dish.  It was, apparently, part of a normal Ferelden breakfast.  Aveline liked it, too, and Leandra had served it many other mornings.

“Yes.  Looking for ‘Evalina,’” Hawke replied.  “All I know about her is that she’s Ferelden and that she took care of children, so we’re going to have to consult Aveline for the rest of the details.

“Aveline probably won’t be coming with us.  She avoids Darktown,” Fenris mused.

“It’s for the best,” Hawke told him.  “They put up with me because I help in the clinic, but most of them down there don’t trust the city guard, and Aveline is too vain about her position to wear different armor.”

“We should bring Isabela and Varric, then,” Fenris said, noticing the slightly jealous look that Hawke got when he mentioned Isabela.  That was new, and worrying.  Hawke had less than no reason to be jealous of Isabela, of all people.  He had never even been tempted, once Hawke had made her interests clear, and had told him, one night _after_ , that so long as he wanted her to wait for him, she would.  She was completely drunk, but _in vito veritas_ , and Varric had confirmed several times that Hawke’s bed had remained empty; Fenris had felt he could do no more than keep faith, and Isabela had never been a true temptation, anyway.

So, why would Hawke be jealous of her, now?

“And probably Merrill, too, if we can drag her along.  Maybe Sebastian would deign to join us.  How about you, Anders?”

“I’m needed in the clinic,” Anders told her, matter-of-factly.  “And I need to write the next part of my manifesto.”

A frown touched Hawke’s lips at mention of his manifesto, and a scowl showed plainly on Fenris’s face.  _Fasta vass_ , that manifesto was more important to Anders than keeping Hawke safe was.  He was glad that Hawke had not taken up with the mage because of that, aside from the other, more obvious reasons of that he, himself, loved Hawke and he would probably wind up killing Anders for eventually hurting her, if Hawke hadn’t chosen to give her heart to him, instead.

“You should get more exercise,” Hawke told the man, cajoliningly.  “Get out more, get fresh air and sunshine.”

“Fresh air and sunshine?  In Darktown?” Anders sounded amused.

“Who knows, maybe after we find this ‘Evalina’ we can go on a picnic out to the coast.  We could make a camping trip out of it!  Go take a swim, even!”  Anders scoffed, and Hawke affected an insulted air.  “You’ll wish you had gone swimming one more time before fall finally hits hard,” she warned.

“A camping trip sounds like a fine idea, actually, Hawke,” Fenris said, encouragingly.  A camping trip with himself, Hawke, and Weezl, that is.

“Camping is fun!” Bodahn’s son, Sandal, put in, clapping his hands.

“It certainly was, my boy,” Bodahn told him, smiling indulgently.  “We had more than our fair share with the Wardens, though, for my lifetime.

“Sandal would be welcome to come, too,” Hawke said, suddenly seeming excited.  “I know just the place, near a nicer part of the beach.  We can clear out the bandits and stay out for two nights or so.  Would you like to come, Orana?”

“Oh, no, Mistress!” Orana exclaimed.

“Hawke.”

“Oh no, Mistress Hawke!  I am much happier here, with Messere Bodahn.”

“Well.  Maybe we can plan it for a week or so from now,” she said, and Sandal jumped up and down, clapping his hands together.  “What do you say, Fen?” She smiled her special smile at him and Fenris inhaled sharply, falling into those deep blue eyes.

“I enjoy following you,” he managed to say, finally.  Hawke’s smile broadened, and Anders made some kind of disgusted noise, and Fenris felt himself belong to Hawke just a little bit more.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go pear-shaped.

Things went mostly pear-shaped, after that.  Really, when it came to escaped mages, Fenris should have known to expect the worst.  However, his time with Hawke was making him into some sort of disgusting optimist, he supposed, because he hoped this Evalina would be as easy to deal with as the de Launcet boy.

Not that he was, apparently, very dealt with.  Isabela had shown up, quite early, by her standards, and told Hawke that she had paid upfront for the night, the boy had needed fifteen minutes, and then she put him on a ship headed “bloody somewhere away from here, I don’t remember.”

This had caused a small row between the women, with Hawke still acting jealous (especially with Isabela there staring at him like he was a juicy steak) and Isabela hungover and sure she had made the appropriate call.

Fenris still wasn’t certain why Hawke was acting jealous, and he wasn’t at all sure that Isabela made the right call.  The de Launcet boy was, as Hawke said, a bloody idiot.  He would be caught again in a matter of days and possibly made Tranquil for Isabela’s “kindness.”  Even Anders, who was still there at that point, said Emile would probably have been safest back at the Circle, and Anders was one who wanted to burn them all down on principle alone.

Then Merrill had shown up and thrown fodder onto the fires of tension by mentioning how strained things seemed between the two other women, and by the time Varric arrived, Anders had fled and Fenris was barely daring to breath for fear of setting off someone somehow.  He wasn’t even certain what the root of the issue was with the two women, or why the Maker continued to allow Merrill to speak, but when he saw Varric he attempted to let the man know, through a series of glances less comprehensible than semaphore would have been, to walk lightly.

Thankfully, Varric was a dwarf of uncommon ability and sense, and he distracted Isabela with a description of their disastrous meeting the night before while Fenris distracted Hawke with discussion of their semi-planned camping trip, being quite careful to skirt around any potentially delicate topics.

Before long, they were shuffling out of the non-cellar entrance to Darktown, Isabela and Merrill going in one direction, to look for this Evalina and her children, and Hawke, Fenris, and Varric going in the other direction, both groups agreeing to meet up at the clinic in about two hours to swap information.

As luck would have it, Hawke found Evalina’s “children” nearly immediately, in what passed for a run-down shack.  An older, teenage boy and a younger lad were lounging outside, and the older one, Walter, apparently, by name, was able to say enough about how angry Evalina was, how she changed and was scary, that the three of them immediately knew to expect a fight and nothing good.

Hawke didn’t even want to wait for the other women to meet up with them.  She was concerned that this Evalina was using blood magic, and if she was, she needed to be stopped sooner rather than later.

Fortunately, it was not blood magic.

Unfortunately, Evalina had traded her soul to a demon and was an ungodly abomination, and they had to put her down in front of Walter and the other boy, his brother Cricket.

Hawke was nearly in a state of shock, after.  He could see it in the defeated stance, in the way she kept fighting to put one foot in front of the other, in the lack of emotion in her voice as she tried to console the two boys, passing Walter a handful of gold and directing him to Anders’s clinic to try to get further help and to help out more.

Then, she just started walking.

Fenris pulled Varric to the side and told him to wait for Isabela and Merrill, and that he would bring Hawke by The Hanged Man later.  Then he ran to catch up with her, and just let her walk.

They tromped up to Lowtown, walking the filthy, crowded streets, Hawke with a distant look on her face.

He followed her past her uncle’s house, circling around the alienage, then out towards the docks.  They walked past warehouses, and up and down piers, and right in front of the stupid templar who always asked passers-by if they knew of any apostates.

She stood in front of the huge statue that had been erected in her honor, the one that was such a huge joke because it was obvious the statue of a man, a templar, and not the small, delicate female apostate who had actually saved the city.

Fenris followed her up through Hightown, through the back ways and alleys that were the seedy underbelly of the area, avoiding the cleaner main streets and ways.  In fact, they had been walking so long that Fenris realized the time was closer to dinner than midday and they were both still splattered with demon ichor, blood, and the muck that made up the Darktown sewers.

She had been walking about two steps ahead and to the left of him, and so Fenris increased his pace slightly and took hold of her sleeve.  “Marian?”  She shook her head, as if coming out of a daze, but did not look at him nor answer.  “Marian, we need to go home and clean our weapons and armor.  And get baths, and eat.  I promised Varric we would be there for Wicked Grace tonight.”  He kept his voice as gentle and light as he could make it.

“You go,” she said in response, sounding tired.  “I’m not up for Wicked Grace tonight.”

“I need you there,” he told her.  “You bring me good luck.”  She barked a laugh, sharp and bitter.  “Besides, don’t you want to see me take all of Varric’s coin tonight?”

“I want…” she stopped abruptly and took a deep, shuddering breath.  “It doesn’t matter what I want,” she continued.  “You should do what makes you happy.”

He was puzzled by the cryptic statement.  “It would make me happy to go home, bathe, eat, and go to Wicked Grace night,” he assured her.

“Then that’s what you should do.”  She pulled her arm away and started walking again, towards her estate.

“You’ll come with me, then?” he asked, following at her side.

“No.  I’m too tired, tonight.  I just want to stay in.”

“Then I will stay in with you,” he assured her.  Hawke whirled around, her ponytail whipping her in the face.

“Go home, Fenris.  Then go play Wicked Grace.  You deserve happiness.”

He took a step back, unprepared for the open anger on her face.  “If that is what you want, Marian.  I can go alone tonight.”

She turned around again, shrugging, and kept at the same slow pace.  Fenris was torn between following her and going to his mansion, but Hawke had said for him to go home, and home was with her.

Hawke made no moves to tell him to leave again, and so Fenris followed her inside and instructed Orana to have dinner prepared for them all in an hour –earlier than usual, but he had a feeling Hawke was going to retire early.  In fact, he was going to make sure of it.

While she bathed, he saw to cleaning her staff and directed Bodahn to cleaning her robes.  The man knew the proper care of mage robes from his travels with the Wardens during the Blight and Fenris trusted him to get them cleaned properly more than he trusted some random laundress, or even Orana.  By the Hawke decided to be done with her bath, his own greatsword was cleaned up and Fenris had made a good start on his own armor.

“You’re still here,” Hawke said, upon seeing him, taken aback by his presence.

“Where else would I be, Marian?”

“I thought… that you’d be at The Hanged Man.”

He smiled at her, fully and genuine.  “There company there isn’t half as nice or a tenth as beautiful as the company here,” he said.

She blushed fierce crimson and smirked just a little, muttering about him being dangerous.  “I suppose you’d like to stay for dinner?”

“Perhaps, if you’d have me.  And maybe a reading lesson, and some chess, afterwards?”

“Not as riveting a night as getting drunk at The Hanged Man and losing all your coin,” she warned, playfully.

“You wound me, Marian.  Do you think that I would truly lose?”

“Without your good luck charm there?”

“There is that.  My good luck charm is, however, usually so distracting, with her beauty and her truly horrible jokes.”

“They’re not _truly_ horrible,” Hawke argued.  “They’re only mostly horrible.  An entire degree less of horribleness than you are implying, serah.”  Hawke grinned, and Fenris felt himself relax, just a little bit.

* * *

 

Fenris was glad, for Hawke’s sake, that the Tranquil assistant from before was not there when they returned to update the Knight-Commander on the results of the job she had hired them for.  However, it appeared to be some sort of bizarre Tranquil “training ritual” sort of day, for they were milling about in greater numbers than usual and were wearing…

“What’s with all the pins?” Hawke grumped, moodily.  She had been trying to avoid looking at the Tranquil any more than necessary, but even she began to notice the strange sashes draped across chests, bearing numerous pins.

“These are flare,” one of the Tranquil said, in his monotone.  “They alert the templars to what duties we can perform immediately upon looking at them.”

Hawke blanched and clenched her jaw.  Fenris could see her knuckles go white on her staff.   “Flare?”

“Yes,” replied the Tranquil.  “Mages also have flare.  It is recommended that we have at least twenty pieces,” he added, helpfully.

“Can’t they just ask you?” Hawke said, her tone beginning to enter the unknown valley of “stupefied.”

“It was the Knight-Captain’s idea.  The Knight-Commander enforces it,” explained the Tranquil man, slowly.

“And none of you resent it?”

“It is supposed to be fun,” he replied.  “The Knight-Commander is using it to boost morale.”

Fenris shared a bemused glance with Hawke.

“If you will excuse me,” the Tranquil continued.  “I need to have these Rod of Fire request forms on the First Enchanter’s desk by evening.”  He bowed slightly and continued down the hall, his flare clacking together softly.

“Sometimes,” Varric said, after a long minute, “sometimes, I feel like we are characters in a story by a horrible author who gets bored.”

Hawke laughed.  “At least we don’t go around breaking fourth walls, if that’s the case.”

“Give it time,” Fenris muttered, checking the bottom of his feet.  “We should move on.”

* * *

 

Meredith expressed the same amount of sorrow over the two dead escaped mages that the universe tends to express over the death of a rabid dog.

“It is a shame it came to that,” the woman said, not sounding disappointed at all.  “I find it curious that the de Launcet boy was killed, yet there was no body found, no fight ensued, and witnesses saw you speaking with him at The Hanged Man the same night you claim he died –the night before last, yes?”

Hawke held up her hand, palm up, and summoned a quick flame.  “Fire burns very hot, and some apostates will do anything to avoid returning to the Circle.”  True, if unrelated, statements; Emile de Launcet should be on a ship bound anywhere but the Free Marches at that moment.

Meredith pursed her lips, clearly disbelieving, but did not argue further.  “Then I thank you for your help, Champion.  You have done a great service to Kirkwall.”

“If I may, Knight Commander?”  Meredith looked suspicious, but nodded her consent.  “Mages are human and elven.  We are people.  Our power should be respected, but if we fear it, the fear leads to anger, and hate, and the next thing you know, they’re using blood magic and summoning demons.  Maybe if you used a gentler approach—“

Meredith snapped.  “I have tried being gentle,” she said, slapping her desk with an open palm.  “I have tried everything I can, including casual Fridays!  No one knows the risks mages pose as well as you yourself, Champion—your own mother was killed by blood magic.  We cannot give them an inch!” she railed.

Hawke merely shook her head, seemingly unfazed by the tirade.  “If you will not relent, things will only good worse.  Good day to you, Knight Commander.”  She bowed slightly before turning sharply on her heel and marching out of Meredith’s office.

It was as close to rudeness as he had seen her act with towards Meredith.  She must have truly been angered by the plights of those escaped mages.  On one level, Fenris had no sympathy for them at all.  The elven blood mage and the abomination had acted exactly as he always said mages would when given freedom.

However, a small, niggling part of him was questioning.  What if that Huon had been permitted to help his fellow elves in the alienage, under templar supervision?  And been allowed to see his wife?  Instead, he was basically a useless prisoner held in the Gallows, growing more resentful.

And the young Ferelden woman had wanted to help orphans.  What if she, too, had been given leeway to enact those good deeds, under the supervision of the templars?  Truly, only the de Launcet boy had been selfish, and even he had simply wanted what most adult men wanted –company of the opposite sex.  Did not he, Fenris himself, wish Hawke’s company in the same manner?  What harm, to let the fool man court a lady?  Especially a fellow mage, in the Gallows, under templar supervision?

He had spent too much time around Hawke, he realized.  She eschewed Anders’s more extremist positions, but still insisted mages were people and should be treated like people, not like objects of fear.  She acknowledged the dangers of unchecked magic, agreeing with him wholeheartedly that Tevinter went too far while arguing that most Circles outside Tevinter went too far in the _opposite_ direction.

He wasn’t certain he was ready to agree with her on that completely, but… perhaps Hawke had a point.  She strove for balance, often quoting her father: “I will use my gift to serve that which is best in me, not that which is most base.”  Hawke had been taught caution and respect in regards to magic; most Circle mages were taught fear of their gifts, and fear made people do stupid things.

If only all mages were like Hawke, intent on using her gift for good, to help others.  She helped so many –in the Darktown clinic, in Lowtown, in the alienage.  The poor and needy got helped before others.  Not that she was perfect, or a saint; Hawke was human, and could be selfish and greedy at times.  But overall, she was a force of good, and strove for good, and to help others.

There were worse things in the world than to have one’s world view challenged by Hawke, he conceded.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris has a talk with Hawke.

All she wanted was to be alone this evening.

The past few days had been especially tough.  Contrary to popular belief, killing people, even blood mages and abominations, was not something Hawke enjoyed doing on a regular basis.  In fact, she would be perfectly happy if she never killed another person for the rest of her life.

Her heart stayed tender for the poor elven woman, Nyssa.  She had promised to keep her safe, but was too slow, due to dealing with that idiot Emile de Launcet at The Hanged Man, and Huon had killed her.  And then the poor refugee woman who had wanted nothing more than to care for orphaned children.  Now those children had no advocate at all, and there was little Hawke herself could do.  Maybe find jobs for the older ones?  Perhaps she could appeal to the nobility to open an orphanage, or another soup kitchen?  Even some of the younger ones could work there, helping to cook, serve, and clean up while earning meals themselves.

It had reached a point where Hawke was coming to hate Kirkwall.  She pushed the city to take a step forward, only to find it taking two steps back.  She must have become Champion because she was truly the opposite of what Kirkwall was.  A progressive, caring person, who thought about the poor and oppressed in a city-state that cared nothing for its dregs.

Maker, but she was tired.

She even sent Fenris away, knowing that they would eventually wind up “discussing” the escaped mages and a row would result from it.  Hawke didn’t have it in her, tonight.  She wanted meat, and potatoes, and gravy, and bread, and ale, and a hot, relaxing soak in her tub, and a book in bed, with Weezl down on the floor beside her, and no talking or debating of any kind.  Just peace, and quiet, and solitude.

Dinner.  Dinner would come first.  Something hot and filling, maybe a good old Ferelden dish.  Stick-to-your-ribs food, as her father used to joke.  But Orana had made stew again, not something fried and covered in gravy.  Good stew, but… at least it was hot, filling, and fresh.  She even had a couple of glasses of wine to go with it.

And with that out of the way, Hawke took to her hot, soaking bath and book.  She even let Weezl jump up onto the bed and join her, cuddling up against his warm, furry form as she read the trashy romance serial.  Any time her thoughts drifted away from the book, or comforting musings, Hawke beat them back into submission.  Relaxing, tonight.  Decompressing, tonight.  Unwinding, tonight.

She sighed, letting her thoughts drift for just a moment before wrangling them in again.  If only Fenris were willing to give her a massage.

* * *

 

Fenris needed a plan.

A good plan, not one of those shoddy deals.  He needed to know if Hawke would be willing to marry him, then to find out what kind of ring she wanted, then marry her.  There: the basics of a very good plan right there.  If only the rest would flesh out.

He had gone to everyone he could trust with the matter, but Fenris felt he was no closer to winning Hawke’s heart and way into her bed than he was five months previously.

They had gone on a number of jobs since the one the Knight Commander had handed to them, mainly killing bandits and rescuing people who had been kidnapped.  However, Hawke was visibly tense and spent a lot of time being tired.  She hadn’t joined the others at The Hanged Man for Wicked Grace in long enough that Varric was starting to pepper her with questions about what her “other” family had her doing.  That she was insisting Fenris show up even if she did not was even more concerning.  On the evenings they were supposed to meet, and Fenris stopped by to try to get her to come with him, Bodahn refused to let him inside, listing excuses that were usually patently false.

He caught up with her, once, after a job, and asked her if she wanted to talk about it.  He expected a tirade, a rant, a deflection, anything except the brief “no” and then further ignoring by Hawke.  Usually, women always wanted to talk about it, according to Varric.

Otherwise, though, Hawke was keeping to herself.  And it was Fenris’s self-appointed job to take care of her, therefore…

Varric.

“To what do I owe the honor, elf?” Varric asked, looking up from the sheaf of parchment he was scribbling on.  His fingers were smudged with ink, as was his forehead, and he had spectacles on his face, something that must have been a recent development.

“Varric,” Fenris said, in way of greeting.  “I want to talk about Hawke.”

“Have you managed to talk _to_ her?” Varric asked, mirthlessly.  “I can’t get more than a dozen words at a time out of her since that debacle with Meredith and those apostates.”  Varric shook his head, a quick look of sorrow flashing across his features.  “I think she might need a vacation.”

“We had discussed, about ten days ago, a camping trip to the beach, up the coast,” Fenris told him.  “But I’ve not gotten a chance to speak of it since.”

Varric snapped his fingers and grinned broadly.  “That’s it, elf.  We’ll plan a camping trip and drag her along.  Peace, quiet, swimming, fun.  How can she say ‘no’?”

“Fairly easily, if we can’t get her to even talk to us.”

“That’s your job,” Varric told him, sitting back in his chair.  “You’re the only one of us she’ll consistently talk to, even now.”

“Did you miss the part where she won’t speak with me, either?”

“And you’re possibly the only one who can come up with a good excuse to see her, being her –what?  Boyfriend?  Paramour?”

“If she still considers me so,” Fenris muttered bitterly, and looked down, letting his bangs fall into his eyes.

“I think she probably just got overwhelmed and shut down,” Varric assured him.  “She probably needs a swift boot to the rear and someone with a sympathetic ear.  And you elves are all ears, I’ve heard.”  Fenris shot him a dark look, and Varric chuckled.  “Really, elf, it’ll be perfect.  Wine, dinner, maybe some loving…”

“Varric,” Fenris interjected.  “You are aware that there has been no… ‘loving…’ as you put it, since… anyway, that has not happened.”

Varric looked taken aback, then chuckled again.  “You’re shitting me.  No _wonder_ she’s acting like this.  She’s sexually frustrated!  What’s stopping you?  Are you insane?  I may be partial to dwarven women but even I know Hawke is beautiful and head over heels for you.”

Fenris gritted his teeth and glared at the wooden plank flooring like it owed him money, curling his hands into fists.  “It isn’t my decision,” he mumbled, finally.

“What?”

“It is…”  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.  “This doesn’t leave this room, dwarf.”

“My lips are sealed,” Varric promised, removing his spectacles.

Fenris began pacing, trying to think of how to phrase the issue, without sounding like a lecherous fool.

Finally, he stopped and shook his head, shaggy white locks swaying with the motion.  “I have tried… wooing… her multiple times over the past several months, and Marian always says no, or changes the subject.  Even when I have… slept over…. She assumes I wish to sleep apart from her, and offers a guest room.”

“Oh,” Varric replied, softly, after a few moments of silence.  The din from the tavern below echoed up through the closed door, and noise from traffic outside came through the open window.  Those were the only sounds for long minutes, while Fenris stood there and refused to look anywhere near Varric, and Varric stared off into space, deep in thought.

“Well,” Varric  finally said, breaking the silence.  “Shit.”

* * *

 

Bodahn sighed heavily, shaking his bearded head.  It was obvious that he was worried for his mistress, but Hawke had him under orders to accept no visitors and thus his hands were tied.

“I’m sorry, Messere Fenris,” he continued, frowning deeply.  “Messere Hawke is not accepting visitors right now.”

“Good thing I’m no visitor then, Bodahn,” Fenris replied, with mock cheerfulness that belied his nature, as he pushed his way past the dwarf and into the foyer.

“Marian!” he called out, knowing his voice would carry.  “Marian!”

“Andraste’s ass, Fenris, go away,” Hawke grumped, as she exited the library.

“I’ve brought wine,” he told her, holding up two bottles of the best that remained in his cellar.  “What has Orana made us for dinner?”

“You’re not staying—“

“—in a guest room.  Astute as always, Marian,” he told her, heading towards the dining room.  His stomach turned nervously; this was not in his nature, and all he could do was pray to the Maker that it worked.  “I was in the mood for something plain and Ferelden-flavored, but I assume Orana is cooking.”

“She made roast chicken,” Hawke said, warily, as she followed him to the dining room.  “Fenris, you’re drunk already.  Go—“

“—have another drink,” he suggested, in return.  “Yes, I think I shall, Marian, thank you for the suggestion.”

“I didn’t—“

“The camping trip we spoke of is planned for three days from now,” he cut in.  He dared to not look at her, afraid of losing what little courage he had drank before coming over.  “Everyone is going, except for Aveline and Sebastian, and Sandal will be staying here.”

“Have fun,” Hawke replied, bitterly.  “I’m sure you’ll find plenty to keep you occupied.”

“My main source of entertainment will be watching you splash in the water with barely anything on,” he replied, made bold by the wine, his voice low and suggestive, back solidly turned to her so that she couldn’t see the new shades of red the Maker had invented for his face and ears.  He would kill Varric if…

“Sorry to disappoint you,” she said, sounding so very tired.  “I’m sure the others will be happy to frolic with you.”

“This is not up for debate, Marian.  Tonight, we shall have dinner, and a reading lesson, and in three days we shall go camping and enjoy ourselves.  Our last chance at summer before the Harvest Festival, which Aveline is hosting this year.  You will need a new gown.  Aveline suggested blue.”

When he turned to face her, Hawke had taken one of the seats and sat with her elbows propped up on the table and her head in her hands.  His heart went out to her, then.

“Why, Fenris?”  He knew that tone, although he hadn’t heard it from her since her mother died.

“Because we care, Marian.  I care.  I am yours.”

“But _why_?  What do I go near that I don’t ruin?”

“Everything, Marian.  You ruin nothing.  You have had many demands made of you, recently, some more than one woman can bare alone.  Don’t forget about us.  Please.  We’re here to help you, and you know that.  Let me help you, if nothing else.  You already know I won’t leave you again.

She sighed and looked up at him.  “Oh, Fenris,” she said.  “What would I do without you?”

“Go without good wine, I suspect,” he told her.

She smiled.

* * *

 

Hawke wiggled her toes, letting the fresh coat of lacquer dry on them, but still wanting to admire the look.

“You’re so good at that,” she told Fenris.  “How did you get so good at that?”

He shrugged slightly and combed through her long, dark hair.  “I suppose it’s a talent,” he said.  “I just know I enjoy doing such things for you.”  Her hair was still damp from the long soak, and she smelled of apples.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to lacquer yours?”

“I doubt red would look good on them,” he deadpanned, his fingers running through her tresses.  “Although you might not be able to tell because of the blood we’re normally covered in.”

“We could try a different color,” she suggested.  “Green, maybe?  Or orange?”

“You spend too much time with Merrill,” he protested, beginning to put small plaits into her hair.  “Next you’ll be making flower crows and talking about frolicking.”

“But you frolic in your mansion,” Hawke giggled.  “You choreograph dance routines.”

“It’s not the same,” he protested.  “My dance routines involve swords.”

“The best ones always do,” Hawke said, cryptically.  She was glad he had basically forced his way inside, tonight.  Fenris could be a world champion brooder, but he never failed to cheer Hawke up, and she hadn’t even realized how much she needed cheering up until he did his level best to get her there.

“The _best_ ones,” he argued, “always involve the two of us and this room, and no interruptions.”

Hawke turned **_red_**.  It flushed from her hairline down her cheeks, back up her ears, down her throat and spread out over her chest, and if his hands had not been in her hair that moment, she would have hidden forever, or, perhaps, would have died, just a little bit.  He couldn’t do that to her!  Here she was, trying to respect his boundaries, trying to avoid touching him or triggering his memories, holding herself back for fear of him leaving again, and he had to- had to _flirt_ with her!  With his hands in her hair and her head spinning from the wine and the first relaxing she had done for nearly two weeks.

She was only flesh and blood!

“More wine?” he asked, as if he did not know what was going through her mind right then.  Well, perhaps he didn’t, but…

“Maybe a little more,” she replied, somewhat breathlessly.  He kissed the top of her head and disappeared on near silent feet, only to return short moments later with an unopened bottle to fill the two empty wineglasses with.

“Is this a special occasion?” Hawke asked him, suddenly.  “I didn’t miss a holiday, or a birthday, right?”

“I am unsure of when my birthday is, as you know,” he replied, settling behind her again.  “But otherwise, it is an evening spent with you, and that is special enough.”

Oh.  Oh no.  Maker.

Hawke _squirmed_.

What had he _done?!_

Fenris handed her her glass, but Hawke simply held it, twirling the stem in her hands for a moment. 

“Fenris?” she asked, eventually.

“Yes, Marian?”  He set his wineglass down and started plaiting her hair again.

“You know… you could tell me anything,” she told him, haltingly.

“I am aware,” he replied, evenly.

“Is there…anything you might want to tell me, but you think I’ll get mad about it?”

“Yes.”  Her heart skipped a beat and she took a long swallow of wine.

“Okay.  I, ah… I won’t get mad, if you tell me tonight.  You have a free pass.”

“A free pass, is it?  Very well.  I abhor the abomination and wish to tear his heart out of his chest,” Fenris said, calmly and evenly.

“We all know that, though,” she said, her voice small.  “I was thinking more… oh… I don’t know.”  She twirled the wineglass again, staring into the red liquid as if it had answers.  “Maybe something like yousleptwithIsabelamaybe?”

He was still and quiet for a long time.  “Why would you think such a thing?” he asked, eventually.

“She’s prettier than me.  Funnier.  A better fighter.  A better drinker, better at cards, better in bed—“

“I wouldn’t know,” he told her, sounding earnest.  “I have never -and will never- sleep with Isabela.  I’m afraid my heart is quite taken with another.”

“You’re not very picky,” Hawke complained, twisting away from him.  It was obvious that she didn’t believe him, was determined not to.

“On the contrary.  Only the best, for me.”  He tapped the tattered red ribbon tied around his right wrist.  Over gauntlets, over gloves, over bare skin; the only time he did not wear it was bathing.  It was a dedication, a favor, a statement of his feelings that had been soaked in enough blood in service to one woman that Helen of Troy would be put to shame.  “Marian, what did you think this meant to me?”

“That you liked committing petty theft of women’s hairs accessories?”

“He rolled his eyes and pressed his bare fingers against her cheek.  “Marian.  _I am yours_.”

And for the first time, she seemed to actually believe him.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A camping trip hilarity ensues!

“You, elf,” Varric said, shifting the pack on his shoulders and causing everyone else to shift theirs as well, “did a pretty good job, I have to hand it to you.”

“Anything for Hawke,” he replied, ducking his head to avoid letting Varric see the flush across his cheeks.  IT was only too bad the tips of his ears always showed, even if Hawke had said she thought they were “cute,” because he flushed redder there than his cheeks.

“How’d you manage it?  Did you sweep her off her feet, or was it the other way around?”  Fenris glanced to where Hawke was hiking between Merrill and Isabela, adjusting the flower crown that the blood mage had created for her and generally laughing and seemingly happy.

“I’ll only tell you this,” he said, less grumpily than he might have.  “There was no actual sweeping involved.”

“Every little bit helps,” Varric quipped, cheerfully.  Fenris glared at him and narrowed his eyes for a moment. 

“You’re going to put this in your book, aren’t you?”

“Readers are suckers for angsty romance, and little hints like yours just add fuel to my imagination.”

“Keep your imagination child friendly,” He warned, with a growl.  “That’s Hawke you’re writing about.”

“It is, and it isn’t.  There’s a lot about Hawke that’s just purely made up, in these stories.  She’s the basis for the tales, as it were.  And you’re the dashing, dark, and broody love interest who _doesn’t_ sweep her off her feet.”

“Dwarf…”

“Elf…”  Fenris shook his head.  When Varric got in one of those moods, Fenris found, it was best to let him be.

Around them, summer was fleeing and Kirkwall was on the cusp of welcoming autumn.  The weather was actually perfect for one last recreational camping trip at the beach before the Harvest Festival; in Minrathous, it would be this warm well into Haring, while this far south would be seeing snow then.  Fenris had never seen snow until coming down south.  Winters were cold here, to him, and Hawke had assured him that Ferelden was all but snow from Harvestmere until Drakonis.

Today, however, was warm enough to go swimming and the nights promised to be pleasantly mild enough that he could get away with sharing her tent, yet not too cool to be comfortable.

Another hour and they had reached their destination, a small cove with a pleasant beach of white sand and blue-green water.  Far enough away from the pollution of Kirkwall yet not too far to be out of the way.  And relatively clear of bandits, he was pleased to discover, although some poor fools had to be shown to the door to the Maker’s side.

Hawke seemed to be in a good mood, he thought, watching her unpack and helping others set up camp.  He helped her set up the relatively small tent they were going to share on a flat and somewhat grassy area.  Far enough away from fresh water so they wouldn’t attract wildlife attention, close enough that the trek to fill waterskins and cookpots would be relatively short.  A slight distance from the others, in case of privacy concerns –Merrill and Isabela were also sharing a tent, and Maker knew that the two of them could get loud for multiple reasons that Fenris didn’t particularly want to think about.

The first task of the trip complete, everyone stripped down to bare essentials (or no essentials, in Isabela’s case, no secret of where _her_ tattoos were, there, and she claimed that she tanned better nude.  Fenris dutifully kept his gaze anywhere but on her) and spent a couple of hours playing in the water.  Even he forgot himself enough to enjoy the carefree splashing and swimming, but when Hawke complained of the mild sunburn that she was starting to suffer from, Fenris shuffled her back up to their tent to use the odd balm Anders had created for just such a necessity.  Fereldens, and their pale skin.

Best part of day: getting to rub good-smelling balm on Hawke’s bare back, in private.

Worst part of day: while working up nerve to put move on Hawke (i.e. touch a boob), having tent stumbled upon/into by abomination and winding up with a face full of abomination crotch.

Camping trip: 1, Fenris: 0.

* * *

“Aren’t people supposed to sing around campfires?”

“The Dalish always do, Isabela.”

“We don’t have enough alcohol for that.”

“’For that’ or ‘for you’?”

“Why not both?”

“There was a funny song about a halla….”

“Does anyone know where the rum got to?”

“Really, you people packed appropriate for the first time I’ve ever known you, but why not pack extra alcohol?!”

“We could send the abomination to get more.”

“…. And the halla….*gigglesnort*”

“I have a name, you know.”

“An annoying name, for an annoying face.”

“Don’t be sore, Broody.  HE didn’t mean to.”

“It _was_ an accident!”

“Your face was an accident.”

“…and the Keeper, she said….”

“I’m not drunk enough for this story.”

“No one is, sweet thing.”

“Is there _any_ alcohol?  At all?”

“I believe you’re drinking the last of it.”

“ _Fasta vass_.”

“…. Has anyone seen Hawke?  She’d like this part, I think.”

“She’s… asleep in my tent.”

“Abomination *growl*”

“I didn’t do it!”

“That’s what she said!”

“We are trading tents, then.”

“You should learn to respect Hawke’s choices, Fenris.”

“Isn’t that Weezl sleeping in Blondie’s tent, next to her?”

“…. _Fasta vass…._ ”

* * *

“Merrill?

“Yes, Hawke?”

“Those mushrooms…”

“Oh, the white and red ones?  Weren’t they pretty?”

“Are you certain they weren’t poisonous?”

“Oh, quite, yes.  The Dalish know quite a bit about them.  Why do you ask, Hawke?”

“Fenris is acting odd,” Hawke managed, “and I don’t feel so well, myself.”

“Oh no!  Could it have been something else you ate?”

“Er,” Hawke suggested, as the fire turned colors in front of her.  Beside her, Fenris held up his hand and giggled.

“Merrill,” Anders said, urgently.  “There is… over there.”  Hawke stared at his face as the shadows made people on it.

“Kitten, I think you’ve drugged them,” Isabela said, with a chuckle.  Beside her, Varric was holding an animated conversation with Weezl, who was attempting to teach him the finer points of Qunari philosophy.

“Hawke,” Fenris said, suddenly.  “My hands.  Have you ever _looked_ at them?”

“Merrill,” Anders was saying.  His pupils were huge in his eyes.  “Merrill.  _Merrill_.”

“ _Fenris_ ,” Hawke chimed, running her fingers through his silvery-white hair.  “Your hair.  It’s _glowing_.”

“ _Hawke_ ,” he repeated, showing her his hands.  Hawke stared at the glowing lines of lyrium tattooed there, then giggled.

“There’s this siege engine,” Anders muttered to himself, vacantly.  “And it runs on _water_ , Hawke.”

Varric had given up on his attempt to discuss philosophy with the mabari and had moved on to quoting love poetry to Bianca.  Merrill was staring at all of them, flummoxed, as Isabela cackled with laughter.

“Varric, why are you jumping on the turtle?” Hawke asked, after a few moments of them silently contemplating their surroundings.

“Because I can’t spit fire anymore, Hawke!”

“Varric,” Anders said, urgently.  “Varric, it’s dangerous to go alone.  Take this.”  He pushed a stick into Varric’s hands.  Varric brandished it, then bravely brought it down onto the top of the turtle’s head.

“My dislike of mushrooms rewards me in the end,” Isabela said, satisfied, as Fenris removed his shirt and tried, quite valiantly, to remove Hawke’s.  Hawke was having none of that, instead trying to find out more about this siege engine from Anders.  “I’m going to have months of blackmail from tonight.”

* * *

Hawke, Merrill, and Isabela had gone up to the river to bathe.  Fenris had kindly volunteered to go along as protection; on the Wounded Coast, protection was sorely needed, and he had little desire to be left back at the camp with Anders and Varric.

He truly did not mean to look, but happened to catch an eyeful of the three naked women splashing each other in the water, in the sun, and promptly got a nosebleed.

* * *

“There’s still no alcohol.”

“You are correct.”

“Any more of those funny mushrooms?”

“Maker, _no_.”

“It _was_ pretty funny!”

“Camping isn’t really camping without alcohol or funny mushrooms.”

“Some of the Warden used to smoke spindleweed.”

“Really?  Did it do anything?”

“Not really.  They always just wound up eating for several hours afterwards.  Sigrun got them started on it.”

“You always have the best stories about the Wardens.”

“Well, the Warden-Commander was something else.”  A wistful sigh.  A long pause.  Then:

“So… anyone have any spindleweed?”

* * *

Merrill came out from the trail to the area they had set aside for their latrine, looking alarmed.

“Creators, be careful!  The place is crawling with rashvine!”

Isabela stood quickly, her dark face going pale.  “Rashvine is bad?”

“Well, it’s all in the name, isn’t it?  It’ll give you a nasty rash on your bits if you use it instead of elfroot.”

The pirate swallowed hard, eyes wide.  “How can you tell the two apart?”

Anders quoted in a sing-song voice, “Leaves of three, let it be.  Leaves of four, eat some more.”

If possible, Isabela went even whiter.  “Anders, I think… I think I’m going to need some more of that salve…”

* * *

Fenris felt the first stirrings of panic well up in him.  _Stay calm_ , he told himself.  _You will find it_.  He flung things out of the shared tent without hesitation, however, fighting the panic.  One of Hawke’s boots was flung unceremoniously behind him and he heard a yelp of pain from the abomination, followed by a cursing questioning of his parentage.

_“Fasta vass_ ,” he muttered, angrily tossing a book behind him.  This garnered a “Creators!” from Merrill, whom it must have hit.

“Fen—OWW!” Hawke exclaimed, rubbing her head where Fenris had elbowed her sharply.

“Hawke!  I apologize.  Do you need Healing?”  He eyed where she was hit with concern and gently touched it with his fingertips.

“No, I’m okay.  Why are you tossing everything out of our tent, though?”  She caught his hand with hers and held it for a moment, giving him a smile.

“I… my…. Your ribbon,” he managed finally, touching his right wrist rather ineffectually.  “I cannot find it.  I took it off before going to wash up at the river, and now…”

“Oh,” Hawke replied, immediately catching his concern.  “Where did you take it off?”

“I thought I had left it in the tent,” he said, gesturing to where he had been throwing things.

“Well, then, I’ll help you look.”

By the time an hour had passed, everything was out of the tent and had been gone through at least three times.  The camping area had been gone over by each member of the party, and the path from the campground to the river as well as the beach had been covered multiple times.  Fenris was growing more and more frantic, to the point where he stood near the campfire’s ashes, running his fingers ineffectually through his hair and scanning the perimeter uselessly.

Even Anders was helping to look for the thing, if only to shut Fenris up as quickly as possible.  They had planned on starting back to Kirkwall after midday, but the suddenly missing ribbon, along with the crew’s understanding of its importance to Fenris, kept them there longer than they had planned.

Hawke was trying, ineffectually, to explain that they could get him a new one when Weezl started barking like mad near a tree, almost seeming as if he were trying to climb it.  It was Anders who paid attention that time, trying to look anywhere but at Hawke, comforting Fenris, and Anders who caught the flash of red moving up in the tree.

“Hawke?  Fenris?”  he said, then, pointing at the moving flash of red.  “I think Weezl found the ribbon.”

Fenris’s eyes whipped to where Anders was pointing, and Hawke’s head turned in that direction as well.  _Fasta vass!”_ he cursed, then took off running for the tree Weezl was dancing at, Hawke on his heels.  IN a moment’s time, he was climbing it, and the red ribbon suddenly jumped from that tree to another.  Weezl followed it and Fenris, halfway up the tree, jumped down, while Hawke, Merrill, and Isabela rushed it.

“Maybe,” Merrill said, once the squirrel had gotten up into the fifth tree in a row, “If we taunt it, it will become so cross that it might make a mistake.”

Isabela lofted a combustion grenade.  “Tell me when, kitten.”

Fenris spluttered.  “That’s… that’ll destroy the ribbon, too!” he protested.

Isabela scoffed and checked the position of the squirrel.  It hadn’t moved in about five minutes, but the squirrel had the high ground, even if _they_ had the numbers and Bianca.

“At this point, sweet thing,” she said to Fenris, “it’s a matter of pride.”  Somewhere distantly, in another world, "Yackety Sax" began to play.

* * *

“So,” Hawke said, on their way back to Kirkwall.  “That was a nice camping trip.  Same time next year?”

“No,” came the chorused replies.

“Spoilsports.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably my favorite chapter in the entire thing. Believe it or not, my kids helped me write it.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke needs to relax. You know.... relax.

Hawke appreciated the idea behind the camping trip, she really did, but the reality of returning home to a pile of mail was rather daunting and disappointing both.  She sighed, tired, as she dropped her pack in the front foyer of her estate, by herself, and unburdened for the first time in three days.  Bodahn, Sandal, and Orana were bustling around somewhere in the huge house –she could hear them, faintly, and would need to let them know she had arrived back, soon –and Weezl was with her, sniffling at his favorite spot by the hearth, but for all intents and purposes, she was alone, and it was a relief, one she didn’t realize she needed.

  
Something else that she needed was a hot soak, she realized.  The river water had been cold, and the beach water had been a hairsbreadth away from cold and, while the weather had been comfortable enough, with fall coming on fast (and Kingsway and the Harvest Festival both close at hand) a sort of chill had soaked into her bones, one that could only be dispelled with lots of time in lots of hot water in her tub.  Perhaps one of Isabela’s trashy romance novels for company, and some wine, and maybe some of those lovely scented candles that Aveline had given to her for her last birthday…

Hawke realized that she needed a vacation from her vacation.

* * *

Hot bath: check.  Scented candles: check.  Wine: check.  Trashy romance novel: check.  Hawke: check.

She moaned wantonly, just a little bit, as she lowered herself into the water, stretching out and reveling in the feel of the heat soaking into her skin and into muscles that had grown used to cold.  The candles smelled like she always thought the color blue should smell –clean and relaxing, calming, and a balm to her overworked mind.  The moan was quickly followed by a contented sigh, and Hawke leaned back until she was supported by the end of the tub, stretching her legs out in front of her.  Luxurious baths were truly the best thing that having money could bring you, Hawke fervently believed, and the ability to have such a magnificent tub coupled with the magic to keep the water as hot as she wanted it was one of the best things about her life. 

So she sat there and enjoyed the decadent bathing experience until her mind started taking over and directing her thoughts to less relaxing areas, and then she picked up her book and started reading it, devouring the pages until the candles burned low, re-heating the bathwater as was necessary.  The story was a particularly vapid tale of a princess and a knight, and it included the ripping of bodices, the heaving of bosoms, and a saucy Antivan assassin, but was readable despite those things and by the time Hawke was truly pruny and wrinkled and ready to get out, she had nearly finished the thing.

A quick dry-off and a simple throwing-on of her dressing robe, and Hawke was headed for her room, to change into something comfortable for sleeping.  She was humming to herself, a slight smile on her lips, and she tossed the robe against the back of her chair before picking out some new clean smalls to put on.

A slight cough made her back stiffen, and she turned, very slowly, in the direction it had come from.  Fenris, her brain told her.  By the window.  And she was… and he could see…

“Oh _Maker_ ,” she nearly wailed, tripping over her feet in her haste to grab at her robe.  Three tries of putting it on and, then, the fourth, she got it on correctly, the entire time mouthing apologies.  At least he didn’t _look_ offended –if anything, he looked _amused_ , although she knew he wasn’t interested in… in that… not if that last time—Maker, the _first time¸_ the _only time_ –not if _that_ was any indication of things…

“Hawke, stop apologizing,” he said, finally.  “I’ll go if you like, it was not my intention to make you uncomfortable.”

“No, you can stay, please.  I’m sure there’s plenty to eat, if you’re interested.”  An odd look crossed his face, then, one that Hawke couldn’t place, and then he shook his head.

“Maybe later,” he said.  “I came by to see if you needed any help with anything.  I am sure your correspondence has become rather more than you can handle alone.”

She laughed nervously and raked her fingers through her hair.  “Right, yes.  Lots of jobs, yes,” she babbled.  Maker, she didn’t want to drive the man away!  What was she doing, prancing around naked like that?  It could have been anyone!  It could have been Anders!  Although he, at least, would probably have enjoyed the view.  For a scant moment, Hawke wondered why Fenris even wanted to “be” with her if he had no interest in relationships like that, but she shoved the thought away forcefully.  Now was _not_ the time to be thinking about _that._

“Are you well, Marian?”  Fenris cocked his head to the side, frowning slightly in concern.  Hawke laughed again and realized what a ditz she sounded like.

“Fine.  Relaxing bath might have been… too… relaxing, maybe.”  Yes, good.  Blame mental deficiencies on the bath.  “I wasn’t actually planning on starting on the letters tonight,” she confessed to him.  “But you’re still welcome to stay!  And you could spend the night, if you want, or come back tomorrow.”

He glanced over at her and she wondered if the Maker would just strike her dead right then.  Fenris got these expressions that she never saw on his face anywhere but with her, and she had no idea how to interpret them.  He _must_ like her a little bit, since he kept coming to visit, and he must like kissing her _sometimes_ , since he initiated it sometimes, so the looks… No, she just couldn’t tell what Fenris wanted.

Finally, he spoke again.  “I enjoy nights with you, Marian.”  Ten shades of red colored her cheeks.  He didn’t mean it like _that_ , he—Maker’s breath.

“Good.  I enjoy you staying over.”  She fidged with the belt on her robe for a moment.  “I’ll just get dressed, then,” she said.  “We can… hang out in the library?”

“If you wish.  Do not get dressed on my account.”  Maker –maybe he was drunk.  They hadn’t been back for long, but he could have drunk the entire time, and he got flirty when he was drunk.

“It’s probably better for the servants,” she managed, choking on her words.  When he didn’t move to leave, she widened her fake grin.  “Right.  Getting dressed now.  Just… over here, putting on… my clothes.  Yes.”  She did not move from her spot.

“Marian?”

“Yes?” Her voice broke on the simple word.

“Are you going to change?  Do you need help?”

It felt like a candle lit suddenly in her head.  “Oh, yes.  I’ll get dressed in the washing chamber.  I’ll just be a moment.”  She grabbed her things and rushed out, and heard him curse _“Fasta vass!”_ behind her.  Now what was _that_ about?

* * *

The entire evening felt like it was playing out as one long, interminable joke on Fenris.

He was very pleasantly surprised at happy, naked Hawke, but she was obviously not pleased with his sudden appearance.  However, she seemed pleased enough to invite him to dinner and stay the night, both of which were goals he was, more or less, happy to meet on a near-daily basis.

But, she seemed oddly out-of-sorts, and jumpy.  He wondered if the relaxing camping trip had actually not been very relaxing for her, after all, because she was… not behaving like normal, happy Hawke.

For one thing, Fenris kept going out of his way to have physical contact with her, and every time he touched her, Hawke literally jumped. That simply wouldn’t do, not with his plans for the evening involving a lot more touching and intimacy.

She also seemed ill at ease, which put Fenris off somewhat.  Hawke was always so in control, albeit sometimes in a silly manner, but she was losing track of her sentences and babbling.  IF he didn’t know better, Fenris would have sworn she was sneaking off to gulp glasses of wine.  It wasn’t like her, not at all, and he started to suspect that her unease was being caused by his presence there at the estate.

“Marian, you seem tense,” he finally said to her, when it was going on midnight.  “If you would like, I would be happy to give you a massage.”  Hawke’s pale face turned red, then white, and finally settled on sunset pink.

“That’s kind of you to offer but I’m fine, really.”

Fenris furrowed his brow.  “Massage” was step one in his three-step plan to get into her bed that evening.  “Marian, it would be my pleasure, if you would allow it,” he insisted, leaning towards her.  Hawke licked her lips once, then twice, her eyes anywhere but on him and looking very nearly distressed.  Fenris nearly opened his mouth to retract the offer when he saw her visibly tense up and shut her eyes tightly.

“I would love a massage, actually,” she told him, voice strained, body language screaming anything but.  Fenris felt all sorts of confused.  He had assumed… he had thought...

Was Hawke not _interested_ in a physical relationship?

“Marian, I must apologize,” he said, hastily.  “I presumed…”

“No, really, it’s fine,” she interjected quickly.  “After that camping trip, I could certainly use a good massage.  I thought my bath earlier would have to do, but…”  She smiled brightly, suddenly, all visible traces of tension gone.  Had he imagined it?

That was how he wound up alone in her room with her, with Hawke mostly naked and him in a light tunic and pants, and a sort of massaging oil that smelled of lemongrass.

He could immediately tell that his plan was not well thought out.

For one, there was no way he was going to be able to massage her without her feeling the arousal that was already present just from her nearly nude body.

For two, he wasn’t entirely sure how to give a massage, that not exactly being in the scope of his duties as a slave or a bodyguard.

_You can do this_ , he though to himself, sternly.  Hawke lay on the covers of her bed, on her stomach, with her head pillowed on her arms and her hair braided and pinned up out of the way.  The sight of her there in nothing but red and black smalls and breastband was distracting to the point where she had to say his name three times to get his attention.

“Fenris?  Fenris.  Fenris?!”

He blinked, and wiped some drool from his chin.  “Yes, Marian?”

“Is something wrong?  Only I thought…”

_Oh Maker, everything is right_ , he thought.  Out loud, he said, “Everything is fine, Marian.  I was just… getting prepared.”

“Okay, then,” she responded, and sighed heavily, a relaxing sort of sound.

_Where to start_? He chose her shoulders, because they always seemed so tense when he embraced her.  Fenris poured a small amount of the lemongrass-smelling oil onto his palms and then immediately started rubbing her shoulders hard.  Because rubbing shoulders hard is how you get the tension out!

Hawke made a somewhat distressed noise and pulled away from him, stiffening up.  “Andraste’s ass, Fenris, not so rough!”  He felt the heat of shame and embarrassment creep to the tips of his ears.

“My apologies,” he mumbled, and loosened his grip dramatically.  Hawke sighed with obvious relief and Fenris felt it safe to continue on rubbing the oil into her shoulders.  After a few minutes, she sighed and shifted under him, inadvertently bringing her bottom into direct contact with his crotch.  Fenris still his movement for a second, taking deep breaths and thinking about Wallop paddled, before getting a touch more oil and moving down to right above her breastband.

“Oh, let me,” Hawke murmured, and suddenly the breastband was gone, as if by the best kind of magic of all time, and Fenris was suddenly made very, very aware of side boob.  All of him was made quite personally aware of even-nakeder-Hawke, especially the part that was right up against her thinly-clothed and spectacularly amazing ass, and even Wallop paddles couldn’t save him then.

_This massage was a mistake_ , he thought, suddenly, chased by the realization that it was a _glorious_ mistake.  Hawke was making little sounds under him, sighs and moans that went straight from his ears to his groin.  He wasn’t certain he could _get_ any harder, and he felt for sure that Hawke had to be aware of his tortured condition.  As an experiment, he changed positions, straddling her hips so that his erection pushed against her rear with each movement he made.  She voiced no objections; instead, lying there with her eyes closed, her lips were parted in a contented smile.  Maker, but the position and sight were arousing.  He was fairly sure that, should this final step be breeched, he would not last long this evening.  He’d have to think about Wallop paddles more stringently.

His hands roamed further down her back, massaging the sweetly-scented oil into her skin, and suddenly he realized that Hawke had gone rather still and quiet.  His brows drawn in confusion, Fenris leaned slightly to the side, to look at her face and figure out how she felt from the expression.

Hawke was asleep.

Fenris exhaled, defeated, and rested his forehead on her oiled back for a moment.  The temptation to roll his hips forward and against her was strong, but he resisted, instead just shaking his head and peeling himself away from her with a discontented groan.  He padded silently to the washing chamber, to deal with…issues…. And decide how the rest of the night would be handled.

Ah, well.  At least she was relaxed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fenris gets a lil pervy. It's the blood changing location, is all.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baths are had.

Hawke sank into the hot water gratefully, feeling prickles of heat already beginning to unknot her tense muscles.  A Champion’s work, it seemed, was never done, and it felt like, lately, that Hawke’s work followed her to the privy.

Maker’s breath, what she wouldn’t give for Fenris to be willing to give her another neck and back massage, like he had done the previous month.  She had fallen asleep during it, true, and only after embarrassing moans that made her _interest_ plain, but… maybe he would be willing to overlook that?  He had been gone when she woke up, so she obviously bothered him with it, but…

Their relationship was _so strange_.  She was always guarded about her words and actions now, not wanting to drive him away.  Now that Danarius was dead, Fenris felt truly free, enough that he might leave and none of them would ever hear from him again.  But he had _told_ Hawke he wanted to be with _her,_ so…

So what if that meant no sex?  She had gone without sex her entire life, before that one night with Fenris.  She could do it again, _would_ do it again, since it was obviously what he wanted.  And she had to keep telling herself that, so she wouldn’t dwell on how weird and unconventional their romance was.  Kissing a few times, while extremely pleasant, also left her wanting more.

And Hawke was too tired lately to fight for anything more.  She felt permanently exhausted, tired, in pain.  At least she _knew_ she could vent certain frustrations to Fenris and he would be a willing listener, even going so far as to give her sound advice.  And share wine.  And _look_ at her, with those green, green eyes, like mossy emeralds…

She sighed and splashed at the water, frustrated.  At the washroom door, she could hear Weezl scratching, wanting to get in to see his mistress.  It was sometimes scary, how easy it was for Weezl to sense her moods, to know when she needed someone to cuddle with.  Now, however, she just wanted to mope in peace in hot, scented water.

Hawke would have to be in her cups to admit it, but… the last four years had been rough.  Unfairly rough, and at points they had been more than she could handle unaided.  Fenris walking out had been the start of a long, tumbling Year of Exalted Bullshit, as she sometimes termed it in her own head.  First Fenris had left her immediately after they became… whatever they were.  Then she had to deal with idiots from all sides of some sort of religious-political war, from a Viscount who couldn’t wipe his own ass to an entire city on the brink of explosion with the Qunari.  Serial killers, blood mages, crazed abominations.  Quentin, and the death of her mother.  Lies and betrayals, by Isabela, and puppy eyes, and a duel with the Maker-forsaken Arishok that left her bedridden for weeks, even with Anders’s excellent Healing.

She knew her mother would be proud of her now: Champion of Kirkwall, the only one with any actual authority in the city state other than the Knight-Commander, but one couldn’t depend on Meredith _or_ the Grand Cleric to actually do what was needed and make unbiased, hard choices.  And for three years after being declared Champion, she bent over backwards to help whomever she could, to stay busy, to not think.  Thinking _hurt_.

When Fenris left, after that night, she let herself be mad for a day, and then wallowed in self-misery for two.  Honestly, once she sat herself down and thought about it, what was there about Hawke for someone like Fenris?

Mage.  Big bad check.  Nobility.  Okay, sort of a check.  Because, Technicality.  Vaguely attractive?  If you liked smaller breasts and wide hips, perhaps.  Scarred flesh that still always ran “too pale” for most tastes.  Human.  Perhaps Fenris wasn’t actually into humans, or women?  Perhaps emotions were just running high and he realized his mistake too late? 

Yes, she went over list after list in her head for three solid days, trying to figure out why Fenris had no interest in her.  And now, she was glad that she had not pushed nor “punished” him for his actions.  Three days, and then she popped into his mansion with her customary, “Fenris, I need you!”  She wasn’t sure who looked more relieved when he had nodded and strapped on his sword and declared that he remained at her side. It took years later before he finally confessed that he _was_ interested, but was as horrible at the idea of relationships as she seemed to be.

So now she was “with” him, whatever that meant.  Well, apparently, it meant no sex.  Vaguely disappointing; her one try had been awkward, but perhaps practice would have made it better?  So, no sex, but some good talking, and maybe one day they would at least kiss more.

Because, Maker knew, Hawke could no longer do this alone.

The scratching on the door got more persistent and Hawke sighed dramatically before pushing herself out of the tub and carefully padding to the door, water dripping freely from her skin and all over the stone tile floor.  “Weezl, I swear— “ she started, yanking the door open, only to see the object of her recent musings with his fist raised to knock.

She all but squealed and shut the door, feeling like she was going to jump out of her own skin.  Hawke felt her heart pounding and her breathing sped up.  Maker’s breath!

“Marian?”  A pause, and then, “I apologize for interrupting,” Fenris called through the door.

“It’s quite alright!” she called back, managing to sound only _mostly_ strangled.  “I’m sorry for, uh, being naked!”  She grabbed for her robe and started wrapping it around herself quickly.

“No apology necessary,” he replied, almost sounding amused.  Andraste’s flaming ass!  “I was hoping to see you, actually.”  Now if _that_ wasn’t cryptic; of course, he couldn’t mean seeing her naked and dripping wet!  “Varric wanted me to pass along a message, as well.”

Hawke cracked the door slightly and a rush of steamy bath air escaped.  “Well, I hope you’ll be willing to stay for dinner,” she said, putting on a smile.  If nothing else, she could feed him; he was lanky, for an elf.

“Ah, that would be nice, thank you.”  They stood there not looking at each other for several heartbeats, when Hawke cleared her throat. 

“Right.  Yes.  Just… let me get dressed, and I’ll meet you in the library?”

He raked his fingers through his hair, keeping his eyes down.  “Yes, of course.  The… the library.  Yes.”  Still he stood there, his bangs falling back into his eyes.  Maker, the tips of his ears were turning red.  She had messed up badly, if he was angry enough to flush.

She swallowed, hard.  “Yes.  I’ll be down in a few minutes?”

“Yes.  Of course.  Down.  In… the library.”

Hawke bit at her bottom lip, brows knitting together.  Okay, obviously he was upset, so… “Fenris, is something wrong?  Are you okay?  Did you need something else?  You know you just have to ask.  My home is your home.”

He glanced at her face quickly, then looked down again and rubbed the back of his neck.  “Need something?  Yes.  Yes.  I will… wait in the library.”  Then he quickly took off back down the hall.  Hawke shook her head and stepped back into the washing chamber to finish up and dry off.

A quick comb-through and a hair tie did for her hair, and a simple tunic and pants did for the rest of her.  While she thought about it, Hawke used a slight bit of the apple-scented bath oil behind her ears and a touch of the apple-flavored lip balm on her lips.  She knew Fenris liked apples and, well… a girl could hope, couldn’t she?

On her way to the library, she stopped at the kitchen and requested Orana set the table for Fenris as well.  If she had thought he would come over, Hawke would have made sure to prepare the foods she knew he liked, but tonight was a simple stew made of vegetables and lentils with leftover beef from the night before, and freshly baked bread.  Not standard fare for “nobility,” but after more than twenty years of living as an apostate on the run, and a farm girl at that, Hawke did not have fancy tastes.  In fact, the only reason she still had Orana, Bodahn, and Sandal was for their sakes; Hawke had no need of servants, but those three needed a secure home, and that she was able to provide.

Weezl trailed along behind her, toenails clicking on wood and tile flooring, and muffled by carpet otherwise, until Sandal came barreling down the hall into him.  The war hound rolled over like a puppy and started yipping excitedly, ad this caused Fenris to poke his head out of the library doors.

“Ah.  There you are.  I was concerned something had come up again,” he told her, giving her another of his special, reserved smiles.

“Just had to let Orana know you’re here.  It’s just stew and bread for dinner.  I hope that’s okay?”

“I’ve no complaints, especially about the company.”  Oh _Maker_ , she was blushing.

“That’s good, then,” she replied, with a goofy smile, her inner self kicking her brain over and over.  “Would you care for a drink?  I’ve got some more of that Antivan brandy that you so enjoyed last time?”

“I appreciate the offer,” Fenris said, nodding, and Hawke fetched the brandy and two sniffers while Fenris browsed the shelves.  He had read about all of the books in Hawke’s library over the years, including some of the more mystical tomes on magic and the theories therefore, but it was a good thing he wasn’t necessarily aware of the “literature” Isabela shared with her.  Hawke would die of mortification if he saw the covers alone.

Aveline and Merrill liked them, too.

Drinks and dinner and quiet conversation.  If Hawke could ever be able to convince him to move in with her, this could be a nearly nightly thing.  She felt she needed it, down in her bones.  Since Mother had died, her life was _lonely_.  It was “by yourself in the middle of a crowd” kind of lonely, but she felt it keenly.  The only reason she hadn’t given in to Mother’s badgering about marrying and settling in was sheer stubbornness, in the beginning but there were some days that the loneliness crept into her soul, like the cold damp into the bones of an old soldier, and only nights like this one kept the longing at bay.  Nights like this and throwing herself into her role, that is.

Despite the simple meal, Fenris seemed inordinately pleased.  He was a man given to rare smiles and a usually serious demeanor softened around her, of course, but constant otherwise.  Tonight, his good mood was nearly palpable and he was joking and… was he _flirting_ with her?  She must have had too much brandy; Fenris did not flirt, not even with her.  Not _really_.  He wasn’t drunk enough.

They retired to the library after dinner, settling on the sofa by the fireplace.  Cozy.  Warm.  Relaxing.  Summer would be drawing to a close soon, she thought, and the cooler fall months would be upon them.  Not as cool as Ferelden in the fall; they were too far north for fall snows.  But perhaps this year she could convince Fenris to stay at her estate, especially when the fall rains came.  Her fireplaces got regular maintenance and her roofs had no holes or leaks.  Why, there hadn’t been a corpse in her home for _weeks_!

When they finished off the brandy, Hawke realized exactly how intoxicated she was.  Even Fenris’s eyes seemed somewhat glassy.  Still, she asked him if he’d like anything else, and wound up rooting through her wine cellar for something better than that Arbor Blessing she served to unwanted guests. 

Back in the library, she lounged on the sofa and was surprised when Fenris not only urged her to put her feet in his lap, but started gently massaging them.  No one had ever done such a thing for her before and that, mixed with the warmth of the fire and the buzz of the alcohol, relaxed her to an insane degree and made her feel all at once bold and shy.

They were passing the wine bottle back and forth when Fenris spoke up, sounding suddenly only vaguely drunk.  “I had forgotten Varric’s message.  He said he needed to speak with you.  About some Orlesian invitation?  Come by tomorrow.”

“An Orlesian invitation?  Was he drunk?”  She took the bottle back and took a long drink from it.

“Perhaps.  That’s a normal state for a dwarf, isn’t it?”

“Most I’ve known,” she agreed, somewhat chipperly.  “I just don’t remember any Orlesian invitations.”

“He said no more than that,” was the response, and he stopped kneading her heel long enough to take his own drink.

“Perhaps we should go to Orlais,” Hawke suggested, after several long, quiet moments.

“What?  The both of us?  Just us?”  Fenris chuckled.

“Mmmm,” she hummed in agreement.  “You know, Aveline and Donnic honeymooned there.”

“Honey…moon…” he replied, vaguely, as if the words made no sense.

“Not that I… I mean… if you’d like to go with me.  If I decided to go, sometime, that is.”

“I think I might enjoy being with you, at that,” he mumbled, his thumbs caressing over the ball of her foot.  She moaned just slightly and closed her eyes.  Maker, that felt so… nice.  “I enjoy following you.”

The way he always said that made her shiver.  She enjoyed him enjoying following her… Was that even making any sense?  Her eyes were starting to close of their own volition.  She wished… she wanted… even if they only _slept_ …

“Would you like to stay the night?” she asked, breathless and rushed.  He stopped rubbing on her feet and she opened her eyes to take him in.  His silvery white locks fell into his face, hiding the expression in his eyes.

He was quiet for so long, Hawke was afraid he hadn’t heard her, or hadn’t understood.  Or worse, was desperately trying to come up with excuses to leave.  But finally, he spoke up, his voice tender and overwhelmingly _friendly_.

“I would like that, Marian.”

“Good.  Yes.  That’s… good,” she replied, dumbly.  “I… would you care for a bath?  I know yours isn’t as nice as mine, and…”

He chuckled and stroked a finger over the top of her foot.  “A relaxing way to end the day,” he murmured.  “But I have no clean things to change into.”

“You could wear my pants.  If you wanted.”

“Perhaps,” he replied.  So, he was going to be cryptic, flirty, _and_ in a good mood tonight?  If only he were like this _all_ the time, or with her every night instead of just a handful.

“Okay.  You, bath.  Me… I’ll be in my room, I guess,” she finished, lamely.

“I will see you soon, he promised, gently moving her feet from his lap, and getting up off the sofa.

Hawke stood a few moments later, catching the time on the clock on the mantle; after midnight.  Orana and the dwarves had already retired, so it was up to her to lock up and to make sure Weezl had been let out one last time before they retired.  Her head spun; she wasn’t sure that she was the best woman for the job, in her inebriated state.

She opened one of the guest rooms -the one that Anders did not routinely use- and set about making sure it had adequate necessities, and then she left Bodahn a note explaining that “Messere Fenris” was sleeping over, please be sure to have apple pancakes and bacon and fresh juice ready for his breakfast.

_The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach_ , she thought, choosing out plain linen pants for him to wear and laying them out in the changing room beside the main washroom.  She tended to wear those around the house, and they were enough of a size alike that he should be able to wear them with little issue.  This was not the first time he had stayed over, and they both knew the general routine.  At one point or another, all her friends had stayed over.  If Hawke had her way, half of them would _live_ there permanently.

Then, with preparations made she dug out one of the romance serials she had borrowed from Isabela and curled up in bed to read.  Before long, she was asleep, with the book under her head.

* * *

Fenris tried to not hurry through his bath while hurrying through it anyway.  He had _plans_ for Hawke, and they all involved him and her and her bed and… well, his imagination could be very good, now.  Isabela had snuck him some rather descriptive books with… interesting… scenes, and every one had branded itself into his brain, with Hawke and himself as the players.

So, he hurried and bathed, dried off and dressed in the plain pants that she had left out for him, the buzz of alcohol in his bloodstream spinning his head pleasantly and the heat of desire pooling in him.  Perhaps they could finally consummate their relationship, after six months of little more than a handful of heated kisses.  She would _know_ he wanted her, that he had been painfully honest when he said to her that if there was a future for him, he wanted it to be at her side.  In all ways, in all things.

So, he hurried, and when he finally made it into Hawke’s room, she was fast asleep with a book.

_Fasta vass_ , he cursed to himself, and hit his head lightly on the doorframe before sighing and climbing into bed beside her, the door firmly shut and locked behind him and the pants discarded onto the floor.  The book was removed and the candles blown out, and then Fenris pulled the blanket over them both and held Hawke while he drifted off into an unsatisfied sleep.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke wakes up to a Fenris, and has a midnight rendezvous.

Waking up was a slow and painful process, made worse by the light, and the leather that suddenly made up her mouth.  She blinked several times and then yawned and stretched, stopping abruptly when her armed touched someone firm and warm.

_Andraste’s knicker weasels!_ Who was in her bed?!

“Good morning,” said a low, deep voice, somewhat heavy with sleep.

_Fenris_.

In her _bed_.

While she was hungover, with bed hair and _morning breath_.

And his… against her…

_So this is how I die,_ she thought, ready for it to all be over in a hot flash of searing Ending pain.  _Abject mortification_.

Hawke nearly leapt out of bed, which actually was more of a tumbling out, her head pounding.  “Good morning, Fenris,” she replied, her legs tangling in the bedclothes and tripping over her tongue.

“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable back in bed with me?”  If her mouth weren’t dry before, it was _now_.  His hair was tousled and he wasn’t wearing _anything_ , not even the pants she had laid out for him.

Quickly, Hawke turned away, feeling her face turning bright red.  “Ah, um, did you not find the pants I had laid out for you last night?”

“Yes.”

She paused, not expecting that answer.  “Ah… they did not fit?”

“Perhaps.”

Silence fell as she stared firmly away from the general vicinity of the bed.  She could hear the sounds of mid-morning in Kirkwall outside, through her window, and downstairs she could hear Bodahn and Sandal’s voices, the sound of Weezl’s happy barking.

“Right.  Um.  Well.”

“Your eloquence is astounding, Marian.  Come to bed.  We drank far too much last night to be up this early.”

Naked Fenris.  In her bed.  Not running away.

_Not running yet.  He started it the first time, too.  Losing him is not worth an hour of pleasure_.

“I… need… it… others…”

She fled her room.

_“Fasta vass!”_ she heard behind her, but did not process it.

* * *

Breakfast wasn’t as bad as she had feared, especially since Bodahn and Orana had delivered on the pancakes, bacon, and juice.  Given how it had started out, Hawke was nearly afraid to show her face again, but Fenris met her in the dining room with another smile and pleasant greetings.  She felt _incredibly_ lucky that he was so full of smiles for her over the last day.  Fenris tended to not smile much at anyone other than her. 

It was satisfying, watching Fenris tuck in, even if she wasn’t the one who did the actual cooking.  If she could get him to stay over more, she _could_ cook for him.  But, that would mean caging him in, and…

She would rather have Fenris there than someplace else.

“I guess I’m paying Varric a visit this afternoon.  Did you have plans, Fenris?”

“Nothing that could not be put off if you need me, Marian,” he responded, brightly for him.

“I never mind your coming,” Hawke replied with a smile, and Fenris choked on the bite of pancake he was eating.  “Are you alright?”

He nodded quickly and downed his juice.  “Yes, fine.  So, it appears as if we’re spending the day together?”

“Only if you want to,” she told him, hastily.  “I don’t want to take you away from your plans.”

“I can think of nothing better to do with my time than spend it with you, Marian,” he told her, gravely, and Hawke felt like she was going to melt into her boots at the tone and implication of the words.  Maker’s mercy, but she had it _bad_ for this man.

* * *

Most of their day was spent running errands, including ones that took them to the Gallows.  Seven years since meeting Hawke and still Fenris felt defensive of her every time they went there, refusing to take his eyes off the Templars for a moment. 

For her part, Hawke seemed to feel little unease at being there, unless she happened to see Carver.  Seeing Carver could break her to the point of needing to return home for the rest of the day, especially if he refused to speak to her. 

Today she was lucky and only had to speak with Solivitus regarding some herbs and potions she needed.  Hawke was diligent in maintaining Healing potions, lyrium, and stamina droughts for her crew, and worked hard to keep everyone outfitted in the best gear she could find.  She felt inordinate pride in making sure her people were taken care of properly.

When they finally made it to The Hanged Man, Varric was able to tell her little more than had been passed on via Fenris.  His contact, Edge, needed to speak with Hawke about an invitation she had received some while back, to attend an unspecified hunting party in Orlais.  He couldn’t meet during decent hours, of course, so Hawke was going to have to meet him at night.

“Perfect,” she grumbled, pushing a lock of hair behind her ears.  “Arrange the ‘where’ and ‘when’ and I’ll be there.”

“ _We’ll_ be there,” Fenris added in a growl, and neither Hawke nor Varric were able to hide indulgent smiles.  Varric had tried too hard and spent too long helping them be happy to be irritated (and there was no way he was going to let Hawke go along, anyway, even if Fenris had been willing to let her go by herself) and Hawke was always glad for any show of support from Fenris that touched on their “togetherness.”  She liked “we.”  “We” was strong, like copper marigolds.

Oh, Maker!  _Not_ like “copper marigolds!”

It was later that evening when Varric showed up personally to let Hawke know Edge would meet her that night in the Hightown Market District main square. 

In addition to the three of them, Varric had already asked Isabela to be there as backup, preferably in stealth.  Varric always trusted his contacts.  Well, as far as he could throw them, of course.

“A covert, midnight meeting to discuss an invitation to a hunting party in Orlais?  Yes, this all makes perfect sense,” Hawke quipped.

“I suggest we all be on our guards,” Fenris added.  “We should make sure Isabela is outfitted with extra grenades.”

“Maybe we should get Daisy and Blondie in on this, too,” Varric suggested.  This earned him a disgusted noise from Fenris, and Varric put up his hands in supplication.  “If we’re that worried, Elf, then having more on our side wouldn’t hurt.  Aveline is too law-abiding and midnight is past Choir Boy’s bedtime.”

Fenris did not acquiesce, but neither did he protest, so Varric nodded and moved on.  “So, I’ll have them show up, too, then.  Hidden, like Isabela will be, and then the three of us can meet Edge and figure out why in the Void an invitation is worth so much trouble.”

* * *

The night was humid, a few stray, fat raindrops making their presence known periodically.  Hawke had taken a short nap in the evening, before dinner, and then a relaxing bath.  Relaxing baths were quickly becoming a “must” for her, and the bill for bath products had more than doubled over the last year.  But now, napped, fed, and bathed, Hawke was as relaxed as she could be, draped in her Champion armor and with her favorite staff strapped to her back, standing in the square with Varric and Fenris visible, and knowing Isabela, Anders, and Merrill were in the shadows, watching.

Not that Anders and Merrill were good at stealth, but any magic they might do could be attributed to her, an apostate living openly so.  Stealth comes in many forms, and it was Varric who explained that sometimes you can blend in best by not hiding at all.

It was well after midnight, closer to one in the morning, when Hawke shifted her feet and sighed, bored.  “Varric…”

For his part, Varric looked as tired and irritated as Hawke felt.  “Edge is usually very reliable,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

“I know we’re all expecting an ambush,” Hawke began.

“It’s not always an ambush,” Varric objected, his voice ringing throughout the dark, empty square.

Immediately, two men in black dropped down from the rooftops above them, and as they were getting their bearings, Fenris chuckled darkly.  “It’s always an ambush, dwarf.”

Varric sighed, long put-upon.  “Fine.  It’s sometimes an ambush.”  More darkly-clad men appeared around them, armed with bows and daggers for the most part.  They were so overly dramatic that Varric and Hawke shared and eyeroll and Fenris scoffed.  Nearby, she could hear a throaty chuckle – Isabela.

One of the men stepped forward and flourished his knives.  “Well met, Champion.  Too bad you die now.”  Before he managed to take more than a few steps, a throwing knife blossomed in his throat, thrown from the darkness overhead.  Someone performed some rather elaborate acrobatics, doing flips and cartwheels, tumbling down and starting to take out the attacking men with a combination of daggers, hands, feet, and, in one painful-seeming case, head.

Hawke had to admit to being impressed.  The woman -for it _was_ a woman, dressed quite provocatively, considering her activities- seemed to be taking out the enemies single-handedly and Hawke wasn’t exactly certain whose side to take, despite Stupid Man’s assertion that she was going to die.

Suddenly, the strange woman -an _elf_ , she realized- turned to Hawke and said, in a husky, breathy tone, “Well?  What are you waiting for?”  She then jumped back into the fray.

“Who in the void is that?!” Hawke demanded of Varric, as she readied an ice spell.

“Not Edge!” Varric shouted.

Hawke cursed under her breath, but between the six of them and the mystery woman, the attacking enemy had little chance, and soon the fight was over.  Fenris hadn’t even needed to ghost, and Hawke easily had half her mana pool left, even with Healing. 

While Hawke and her misfits were going through the usual cleaning up (cutting throats, looting bodies, checking over wounds and getting Healing if necessary) the elf woman approached Hawke, glancing around at the dead surrounding them.

“This isn’t how I wanted to meet,” the woman said, her accent sounding like Denerim to the Ferelden-born Hawke.  A non-Marcher elf?  In Kirkwall, and not a refugee…

“Exactly what were you expecting, then?” Hawke snapped.  She resisted the urge to rub her temples.

“I… yes.  My name is Tallis, and the men we just killed were— “

“Crows!” Isabela shouted, waving around a piece of parchment.  “Sorry, Varric.  They killed your man.”

Varric closed his eyes and shook his head as Tallis continued.

“Yes, they were Antivan Crows.  But I stopped them before they killed you!”

“Thank the Maker for small mercies,” Hawke snarked.  Tallis grimaced.

“I’ve been trying to get in touch with you,” she said.  “That is, if you _are_ Hawke?  The Champion?  The woman with an open invitation to Chateau Haine?”

Varric snapped his fingers.  “That’s what Edge was on about!  That invitation from the Orlesian Duke?  To the hunting party?”

Hawke frowned.  Really?  _That_ was what this was about?  “Sorry, but I’m not interested in Orlesian hunting parties.”  She turned to go, gesturing for the others to follow.

“Wait!” Tallis cried, running a few steps towards her.  Fenris activated his markings and drew his sword, and Tallis took several steps back, dropping aggression.  “As… impressive… as that is, I mean you no harm,” she promised.  “I have a sort of business proposition.”

“A business proposition that involves Orlesian hunting parties?  Sorry, but I’m all funned out at the moment.”  Still, she gestured for Fenris to sheath his blade.  The elf gave her a scowl before doing so.  His lyrium markings died out. 

“I need you to help me steal something,” Tallis continued, her stance falling into “unthreatening” and “entreating.”  “It’s not anything bad, but the Duke has something that doesn’t belong to him, and I need to steal it back.” 

“What is this thing?”  Her curiosity was piqued now, though she didn’t want to admit it. 

“It’s a… jewel, called the Heart of the Many.  The Duke possesses it, but he doesn’t know its true value.  ‘She who wishes to walk on water must first learn to swim.’”

“Assuming I do this,” Hawke said, shifting her stance so that she was leaning lazily on her staff, “we’d be doing it together, right?”

“That’s the idea,” Tallis said, slowly.  “Or did you have something else in mind?”

“What did _you_ have in mind?” Fenris asked, and even Hawke could hear the jealous tone.  In the background, she could hear Merrill and Isabela giggle.

“ _I told him about the puppy eyes!”_

_“He’s stubborn, kitten.”_

“I just think,” Hawke said, louder than necessary and after an exasperated huff, “that I should get to know the person I’m going to be committing petty theft with first.”

“I think I’d like that,” Tallis replied, and Hawke did not miss the flirtatious tone from her, the subsequent growl from Fenris, the laughter from Varric and Isabela, the “did I miss something dirty?” from Merrill, and the final “Andraste’s knicker weasels!” from Anders.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some talk about going to Orlais ensues.

“Carver, really— “ Hawke was trying to say.

“No, sister.  You are going to Orlais!  Outside of Kirkwall, you’ll still be known as The Champion, but moreso as an apostate. Do not think they will hesitate to lock you up just because you’re Champion here!”  Carver looked about as stubborn as Hawke had ever seen him.  “With me there, a Templar, a least there will be more legitimacy to your being there, whatever fool reason you have for it.”

Her temper snapped.  “Maybe I’m looking for a husband,” she replied, harshly.  “Maker knows you won’t carry on the name, so you’re leaving it up to me.”  A low blow, one of the lowest she could go, and immediately she felt a rush of shame flow through her.

“No, I’m… I’m sorry, Carver— “

“Enough, Marian.  I’m coming, too, and that’s an end to it.”

Hawke bit her bottom lip sharply before sighing in defeat.  “Fine.  We’re leaving in two days.  Going by horse, mostly.  I know neither of us can ride, but you’ll need to make arrangements for the time off and a horse and supplies.”

He was already nodding, seemingly mollified.  “Who else is coming?” he demanded, gruffly.

“Fenris, Varric, Anders, Isabela, Merrill,” she listed, ticking them each off.

“A good crew,” Carver replied, approvingly.

“Yes, they have been,” she agreed.  “I wouldn’t be here without them.”

“Are you sure about Fenris?  Has he changed his mind about mages?”

Hawke suppressed a wince.  She didn’t realize Carver was unaware of their romantic history and present.  “Not… really.  But I have it on good authority that he has decided that I’m trustworthy enough to stay with after almost seven years.”

“So long as he doesn’t cause any trouble,” Carver said.  “And… Merrill, eh?  Does she ever… talk about me?”

She could not stop the wide grin from forming.  “Sometimes,” she teased.  It was common knowledge that Carver fancied Merrill, even now.  Maybe the Hawkes had a thing for elves?

“I thought for sure you’d end up with Anders,” Carver continued.  They were together in the library of the estate, the heavy doors closed in anticipation of the fight that hadn’t gotten as bad as either of them had expected.

“Anders?”  Hawke gaped and blinked stupidly for a moment.  “Why _Anders_?”

“The apostate thing,” Carver said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“The zealous abomination thing is really more of a turn-off, I assure you,” she responded, quickly.

“Really?  Huh.”  And she could see him turning over the “marriage” comment in his head.  Truthfully, she _wasn’t_ getting any younger, but marriage and children were out of the question so long as she was “with” Fenris, and he was the only thing keeping her together, so they were out of the question, period, as far as she was concerned, even if she wasn’t happy about it.  However, if it was a useful cover for a theft…  Carver would find out, eventually, but hopefully not until they were on their way there.

“Are you staying for dinner?” Hawke’s tone was hopeful.

“Not tonight.  I need to let the Knight-Captain know I’ll need to take leave.  I’m certain I can get at least a month if I manage to convince him that escorting you is more duty than leisure.”

Hawke punched Carver in the arm.  “Hey!” he shouted, and punched her back.  A scuffle broke out, only put to a stop by Weezl’s playful intervention.  She started adjusting her hair and clothing while Carver gave Weezl a belly rub.

“So, see you around noon two days from now, Marian?”

“I’ll be here and ready,” Hawke told him.  “Send a message if you need anything.”  She paused and said, in a quieter voice.  “Do you need extra lyrium?”

Carver shuffled his feet uncomfortably.  “If you bring it, I won’t turn it down,” he finally said, trying to put cheer into his voice.

“Will do,” she replied, all business.  He messed up her hair and took his leave, and then Hawke was alone in the estate again.

It had been a week since the first meeting with Tallis.  The elven woman was eager to set off, but understanding of Hawke’s inability to just rush off any time she wished.  Even though “Champion” was not a legal, political title like “Viscount” was, the fact that Hawke had saved the entire city from the Qunari, as well as serial killers, blood mages, abominations, and everything in between, meant that she was, for better or worse, in the public eye.  Holidays and vacations were non-existent, for the most part, and Hawke was glad she was able to wrap up her outstandings and put out “out of town” notices to most everyone who mattered in a week’s time, only.

She used what little down time she had to try to get to know Tallis.  It was difficult; Tallis was a rogue, obviously, and a good fighter.  She had assassin skills, as well, and all together, Tallis was as good at hiding her past around Hawke as Hawke was at hiding her magic around unknown quantity Templars.

Fenris had, oddly, taken an immediately dislike to Tallis, and had even broke their peace by starting arguments with both her and Hawke, something he hadn’t done in a long time. 

“Do you need the money so badly, Marian?!” he spat at her, one day. 

“It’s not about the money,” she began, but Fenris just marched right over her.

“ _Fasta vass_ , I will sell the mansion and give the gold to you, woman!”  She blinked at that; Fenris held onto his dilapidated home as a source of pride, if nothing else, but the man was in the mood to rant, it seemed.  “Or stay here and I will go.  But let us not do this, it reeks.”

“Fenris…”

“I will go with Varric and Isabela and the _mages_ ,” he spat again, “but you will stay here, woman.”

She crossed her arms under her breasts and tapped her foot.  “Fenris.”

“ _Venhedis!_   If I cannot sway you from this course of action, Marian…”  He was pacing now, and gesturing wildly.

“FENRIS!” she shouted, and he finally looked at her with wide eyes, startled at her shouting.  They could count the number of times she had actually shouted at him on one hand.  Hawke took a deep breath and counted to five before continuing.  “Fenris, my darling.  All of us work better together than just a few of us.”  She placed a hand gently on his gauntlet.  “And maybe it can be a vacation.”

He seemed to be watching her mouth.  “Vacation,” he echoed, as if he didn’t know the word.

“Yes,” she pressed.  “Like Aveline and Donnic’s honeymoon.”  He had seemed taken with the idea before.  Maybe mentioning it again would stop his infernal arguing.

His eyes took on a strange cast, like he was looking far away.  “Honeymoon,” he said, as if he were tasting the word.

“It would be fun for us,” she continued.  She traced her thumb against the palm of his hand, and Fenris quickly darted his eyes to their connected hands before bringing his gaze back to her face.  Some of the fight seemed to go out of him, then.

“Perhaps…  I have been… overly hasty in my judgement,” he conceded.  “There is little you alone cannot handle.  With all of us there, I am certain things will be fine.”

“I’m sure they will,” Hawke agreed, smoothly.  She licked her lips and then risked a quick kiss on his, then backed away several steps.  “Sorry,” she said, suddenly, both looking and sounding abashed.

“Do not apologize.”  His voice was thick and she felt her heart drop.  Of course, he was upset, but at least she had shifted his irritation away from the impending trip.

“No, I truly am sorry.  I… have more work I need to finish,” she replied, sounding tired even to her own ears.  “But maybe you’ll come by for dinner?  I’ll cook you something.”

He glanced at the floor and seemed to sigh.  Maker, but she fucked everything up, didn’t she?  A hidden talent, perhaps?

“Yes, I would like that,” he said, finally.

“Seven?”

“I’ll bring the wine.”

* * *

Hawke, Fenris happily acknowledged, was excellent in the kitchen.  She cooked for him a roasted chicken with fresh potatoes and carrots and, of course, fresh bread and butter, and topped it off with a hot apple pie that certainly was better than any other he had tasted.  She must have spent hours in the kitchen, after he left, preparing this, and just for _his_ sake.

_I do not deserve her_ , he thought to himself, watching her chatter away with abandon, a genuine smile on those delicious lips.  In two days, they would be leaving on this mad quest to steal back this gem, and while they had done plenty of camping trips up Sundermount, and, of course, weeks in the Deep Roads, this time _horses_ were involved, and Orlais, and some aspect of leisure.

_Honeymoon_.  Those came after the wedding, he thought to himself.  It gave him… ideas.  Ideas about Hawke, and himself, that he very much wanted to have.  If he asked her, would she be willing to marry him?  He had nothing to offer but himself, but she had alluded several times to the fact that she didn’t _care_ what he thought he had to offer, she liked him very much just for who he was.

She had been disarming him since they first met, that night in the alienage.  That first smile, the eagerness to help him, the way she shrugged off his dual anger of finding no Danarius coupled with discovering this _mage_ was a mage… That entire first week had been full of Hawke wriggling her way under his skin with those smiles, and awful jokes and blatant flirtations.  And he saw how she did not give that same smile to others, or flirt with others even then.

And now, almost seven years later, they were together, a _romantic couple_.  She gave him more than he had ever dreamed of even with an actual friendship.  Fenris would trust her even if he did not love her: Hawke was fair, principled, ethical, and just.  If all mages were only like her…

“Fenris?  Are you okay?”  Her head was slightly tilted, a curious smile on her lips as she gazed at him.  Those blue, blue eyes, somewhere between the paler ones of her mother and the brighter ones of her brother.  To have people around you who shared your blood…

“I am content,” he told her, smiling gently.

“I’m glad,” she replied.  “You deserve all the happiness you can get.”

“So do you,” he urged.  “I would not be a free man without you, Marian.  You make my life complete and whole.”  Her smile turned into a grin.

“I thought you were going to work on that flattery?” she asked, teasingly.

“It’s only been seven years,” He countered.  “I could not become proficient enough in flattery in a lifetime to do justice to the least of your smiles.

“Ooohhh, that’s an improvement!” she said, her eyes twinkling, and Fenris chuckled softly. 

“I had help from Varric,” he admitted, and Hawke giggled, covering her mouth.  “I was wondering,” he continued, then glanced down, unsure of how to go on.

“Yes?” she prompted, after a moment of silence.

“I do not mean to be forward, but would you mind if I stay over tonight?”

“Of course not!” Hawke declared, and he felt his stomach sink.

“I… see.  That’s… fine, then…” But she was shaking her head and placed her hand on his.

“No, I mean, of course I don’t mind,” she said, hurriedly.  “I’d be happy if you decided you wanted to move in, actually.”

That lump in his stomach moved to his throat, and his mouth went dry.  “You… but…”

“I know you don’t want to,” she said, “but you’re welcome any time.  I’ll even make you up a key, and we can set aside one of the rooms as just for you, so that you don’t feel any pressure and you can get in even if I’m not here.  I’ll let Bodahn know immediately that you’re to be let in and expected at any time, if that’s what you want.”

“Thank you, Marian,” he breathed, although he still felt a little in shock.  This was what he wanted, and more.  In fact, if she truly meant it, he could… he could get rid of his mansion, is what he could and should do.  That would certainly show Hawke that he was serious about them, that he knew what he wanted, now.

She squeezed his hand gently.  “Anything for you, Fenris,” she told him, sincerity shining in her eyes.

Dinner and washing up being over, Fenris was not going to waste the evening.  For a long moment, he wondered if he should not press his luck, but then he cursed his cowardice.  That part of himself had kept him from Hawke for three years, and he would not let it keep him from her any longer.

Perhaps Aveline, Donnic, Sebastian, Varric… well, anyone he had spoken to about this sans Isabela… Perhaps they were right, and that he and Hawke just needed to talk to each other about things, like their relationship.  Maybe those things took time.  Going about courting seemed to be working better than running and hiding, or expecting Hawke to just _know_ what the issues were.

And now Hawke was telling him she _did_ want to live with him!  Openly!  His own room was unnecessary, of course, but Hawke always was one to give more than she took.

Asking him to move in and talking about honeymoons in Orlais… Perhaps Sebastian was right about the Maker smiling on him.  Anything he had gone through was worth this.  It was worth Marian Hawke.

He was tempted to try pushing his luck tonight.  If Hawke wanted the same future with him…

But no.  He made himself be content with what she offered, although he did manage to convince her to share her room with him rather than put him in a guest room.  And he wore some pants to sleep in, this time.  He had hoped, the last time… But no.  No pushing of luck tonight.  Progress was being made, and he would be happy with what he had.  Better to sleep next to his Marian chastely than push and wind up sleeping apart.  That wasn’t cowardice, at this point, he tried to convince himself, but strategy and tactics and a touch of Varric’s courtship advice.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris, Hawke and crew journey to Chateau Haine. It is torture.

Fenris wasn’t sure which was the greater torture: Hawke riding in front of him, or Hawke riding behind him.

Their sharing a horse finally came down to an act of desperation on her part: she had a horse, but did not know how to ride, and Fenris lacked a horse, but _did_ know how to ride. Therefore, Hawke, being the practical woman that she was, declared she and Fenris would simply ride double, rather than take the time to rush and find another horse, or even another packhorse.  They were already starting late, she said, and if it came down to it, they could buy another horse along the road, once she had learned how to ride a little bit better.  Carver, she noted, with irritation, took to riding immediately.

This meant that at least a third of the day, on the first day of travel, was spent with Hawke in front of him in the saddle and Fenris wondering vaguely if the mages’ warnings about erections lasting more than four hours was something he should be taking seriously.  He had seen the flyers about “herbal remedies” for such things and “caution must be used if the erection lasts more than four hours,” after all. And while he certainly had no qualms about having such a condition (or rather, an erection) around Hawke, the circumstances did not include being on a horse, surrounded by their friends, tight leather leggings, and no source of _relief_. 

But every step ground her rear against his crotch, and all he could smell was the soaps she washed with –her hair, her body, and the scent of apples he so loved.  Even the horse, whom Hawke creatively named “Stannard,” did not have a smell that breached the delicious scent that was Marian Hawke.

Adding to that was how soft she was in his arms, and how she fit against him so perfectly…

This was either the Void or the Maker’s bosom, he wasn’t sure which.

The first night, everyone was sore from riding, and Hawke and Anders found their Healing skills much lauded.  Unfortunately for Fenris, Hawke’s Healing tended to arouse him (Anders’s Healing usually just made him angry) and even a cool dip in a nearby stream did nothing to chill his ardor.  _That_ was only achieved with a long, private “walk,” some imagination and vivid, if old, memories, and another cool dip in the stream to wash up.

That Hawke did not sleep next to him that night seemed more like a good thing than a disappointment, oddly.

The next day, Hawke rode behind him.  This was mutually beneficial for both of them, because there was no way she did not notice his state the day before and… yes.  Best to stay professional, for the time being.

But that meant soft arms around him, and her firm breasts pushing up against his back, and an hour into their travels she _moaned_ against his neck, then gasped and clung to him tightly, pressing her face against his shoulder.

“Are you well?” he asked her, but quietly.

She did not answer for a very long time, and then she finally said, “I apologize.”  Her voice was a near whisper against his ear, and the hot breath on it sent a tingle up his spine.  “I am… aroused… I’m sorry!” she nearly shouted the last two words.

“No need to apologize,” he replied, quietly again, once all who had turned to look at them had looked away.  She muttered something about needing a cold bath, and they continued on in relative quiet until lunch, when Fenris had to have another long, private walk.

The others all seemed to be able to carry on conversations, especially with this Tallis, whom Fenris still strongly distrusted, but Fenris was unable and Hawke seemed unwilling, while riding, at least.  Some of the little sounds she was making reminded him of their one night together, and of that _massage_ , and that was driving him _insane_.  If she was experiencing that sort of pleasure, _he_ wanted to be the one doing it, not the bloody _horse_.

But the absolute worst thing was her brother.

Carver was constantly turning in his saddle to glare –at Fenris, he was certain—and gave them both pointed looks.  At one point, Carver pointed to his own eyes with two fingers and then at Fenris with those same two fingers.  He was not quite sure what the gesture was supposed to mean, and Hawke was sitting behind him, so she did not see it to interpret.

At one of their stops, Carver told Fenris to “watch himself,” which Fenris interpreted as a threat.  He wasn’t entirely certain why Caver was suddenly so openly antagonistic; the men had disliked each other for years, of course, but had been mostly civil for Hawke’s sake.  To break their unspoken truce now meant that Fenris had stepped badly indeed.  He did not know what he had done to Hawke to cause such a reaction in Carver; indeed, Hawke seemed willing and eager to ride with him, sit by him at meals, see to his Healing first, and slept beside him most nights.  Obviously, therefore, Hawke was not upset with Fenris and, thus, Fenris had not stepped badly.

So, why was Carver acting that way?

And should he speak to Hawke about it?

Truth be told, he wasn’t certain he could look her in the eye at the moment, not with her little gasps and moans still ringing in his ears, but… She would not want to spend so much time with him if she were angry enough at him that she let _Carver_ know, right?

Fenris’s eyes lit on Varric and a sconce brightened over his head.  _Varric would know what to do_.  So, he approached Varric.

“Varric,” he began, soon after they made camp.  “Can I ask you something?  Of a personal nature?”

“I’m flattered, Broody, but Bianca has my heart.  And I thought Hawke had yours, if our last ‘personal nature’ question meant anything of a personal nature.”

He could not help but scowl at Varric’s grin.  “No, dwarf, not that.  I need to know why Carver has been threatening me with nonverbal communication.”

Varric’s eyes widened and then blinked several times.  “Threatening you nonverbally.  How does that work?”  Fenris demonstrated the fingers-gesture and fierce scowls, which made Varric laugh so hard he was in tears.

“Sorry, Elf.  Listen, you’re with his sister, but you’re not married.  He’s marking familial territory.  Carver is the only male Hawke left; if he doesn’t posture, how will he know you’re worthy?”

“That is ridiculous,” Fenris snapped.  “it is not his to decided who Hawke chooses!”

Varric shook his head and sighed sadly.  “Sorry, Elf.  I don’t make the courtship rules, but from what I’ve seen, it’s pretty much the same regardless of race.  You probably need to kick his ass a little bit, so he knows you mean business.”

“Perhaps… if I sought his blessing in courting his sister?”

“He’d still try to punch you.”

Fenris growled, possessively.  “Hawke is _mine_.  Carver will have to deal with it.”  This reaction caused further laughter on Varric’s part, which served to stoke the fires of Fenris’s anger higher.

He stayed on a low-heated simmering anger the rest of the night, which was why he wound up glaring across the fire from Carver.  Hawke was sitting beside him, brushing out her hair, still damp from her dip in a nearby lake, and the day’s ride had been particularly difficult, since she had ridden in front of him.  Today, riding in front was the worst.

His voice low, he leaned towards Hawke and asked her if she would mind sharing her tent that night.  His intent was to both sleep near her and establish… well, he was not certain what, but it would involve his status as her partner.  Or such was the intent, at any rate.

“Of course, Fenris,” came the sweet reply.  Sweet, soft, wonderful Marian.

An hour later, they were together in her tent, her back to him, his arm draped over her waist.  She felt so wonderful, there against him, sweet torture, and all he could think was how much he desired her.

Without thinking twice, he pressed soft kisses against the back of her neck and stroked down her hip with the tips of his fingers.  She sighed against him and he took that as a good sign, so he began moving his mouth to her ear, his hand now pulling up the hem of the underrobe she was sleeping in.

“Fenris?” she said, her voice cracking slightly.

“Marian,” he responded, his own voice thick with desire and need.  She turned so that she was on her back, although he could not tell her expression in the dark, and she slid her arms around him, drawing him down towards her.

Fenris was _exultant_.  She wanted him!  It was **_finally going to happen_**!  His lips brushed hers, one hand holding him up off her and the other stroking the warm, bare flesh of her thigh.  Hawke gasped sharply in surprised desire and he could feel his pulse speed up and his own growing arousal.

He moved his mouth down her jawline to her lovely, pale, slender throat, where he nipped and suckled in order to leave a mark.  Hawke chose that moment to moan loudly enough that, spare moments later, and before they had moved onto anything that could be considered heavier petting, Carver was tearing their shared tent apart and Hawke was gasping for a much different reason.

“ _Fasta vass!_ ” Fenris swore, loudly, and rushed to his feet.

“That’s my sister!” Carver shouted, and then he pushed Fenris sharply, both hands hard against the other man’s chest.

“I am aware of your relationship,” Fenris growled through gritted teeth, in response.  His lyrium markings flared and he darted forward to grab Carver’s arm, twisting it back behind him and trying to force the man to the ground.

Carver twisted and struggled, and only the fact that he had a good foot of height and fifty pounds on the elf gave him any sort of leverage to get out of Fenris’s grasp, twisting to punch him in the face.

Hawke was busy trying to untangle herself from the fallen tent while the others had gathered around, placing bets, mainly on Fenris to win.

Tallis, being unused to the group dynamic, asked loudly, “Are they insane?!”

“Just marking territory,” Varric replied, as Carver managed to connect with Fenris’s nose.  Fenris, meanwhile, grabbed one of Carver’s legs and was trying to get the man onto his stomach.

“Enjoy the show while it lasts,” Isabela said, obviously taking her own advice.  “Hawke’s going to get out from under there and be pissed.”

“Varric,” Merrill spoke up.  “I don’t see why you’re only taking bets on Carver and Fenris.  Hawke is clearly going to be the winner, as soon as she gets untangled.”

A moment passed where the only sounds were Hawke struggling, Carver and Fenris fighting.  Then a chorus of:

“Change to Hawke.”

“Mine to Hawke.”

“Hawke to win.”

“Dammit, Daisy,” Varric muttered.

“Well, it’s quite obvious, isn’t it?” Merrill said, innocently.  “Hawke will kick both their asses in a bit.  But probably Carver’s a bit harder, since I think she was having sex with Fenris.”

“She wasn’t quite there, kitten, but I suspect you’re right,” Isabela, Local Sex Expert, said.

“Ah, the sounds of sex in tents.  Nightly music back in the Wardens, when the Commander’s husband visited from Antiva,” said Anders, somewhat resentfully.

“Zevran always did like to make you sing,” Isabela said, smiling in fond remembrance.

“He enjoyed the electricity trick that I taught her,” Anders said, looking sad, suddenly.  “If she hadn’t disappeared, I might have never left Ferelden…”

That was when they all noticed that Hawke had finally gotten free of the fallen tent and was screaming at Carver.

“5 sovereigns, Daisy,” Varric said, obviously disappointed in the outcome, as he dropped coin into her hand.

“What? You mean I won?”

“I think we all won,” Isabela said, eyeing Carver on one side and a half-naked Fenris on the other.  “Glad I got talked into this trip now.  Maybe we’ll get a show like this every night.”

“Or maybe Hawke and Fenris will get to have sex!” Merrill replied, brightly.

“A winning time for us all, kitten.”

* * *

 

She made Carver put the tent back up.

Once inside, Hawke fumed.  How _dare_ they do that to her?  Not that it probably wasn’t a good thing –she didn’t care to risk losing Fenris again, especially not to a moment of lust-driven weakness—but still, Carver had no right!  She and Fenris were _together_ and had been good friends for _years_ by now aside from that; she couldn’t remember how much coin Carver had wasted at the Blooming Rose over the years, even coin they were trying to save up for the Expedition that second year in Kirkwall.  For him to act like that over a man she was involved with was just fucking stupid.

Fenris had disappeared, after donning his tunic, so it was left to Hawke alone to glare ineffectually at Carver.  For his part, he seemed at least somewhat contrite.  Although, that was perhaps more because so many had initially bet on Fenris against him.  Carver was still the little brother in the shadows, and Hawke knew some of her friends had not yet forgiven him for running off to be a Templar instead of standing by his family.  At least Hawke could understand his reasoning for doing so, even if she still thought he would have been better off staying at home and helping her watch Mother.  Perhaps she would still be alive, or at least, she would have gotten the grandchild she so dearly wanted.

She knew it wasn’t racism on his part; Carver had fancied Merrill for quite a while, and still obviously did.  He had just spent so long opposing anything which represented happiness to her that Hawke wasn’t certain he didn’t do it on instinct.

“Marian,” he said, throwing her out of her reverie.  “I’m sorry, again.  I didn’t think— “

“No,” she snapped, “you didn’t.”  To illustrate her point, she rapped him sharply on the head with her knuckles.

“Hey!” Carver protested, jerking away.

“Hey yourself, but hay is for horses and you’re a stubborn ass,” Hawke hissed at him.

“How was I to know, sister?  Last time we talked about anything like this— “

“I told you what you need to know, Carver,” she replied, with a sigh, and began rubbing at her temples.  “But if Fenris tries putting moves on me again, you back off, _little brother_.”

“You can’t be serious!”

Hawke narrowed her eyes at him and folded her arms under her breasts.  “Oh, I’m very serious, Carver.  You leave him be, or I’ll fireball your ass!”

“See, that’s exactly my point!” Carver shouted, illustrating this by slapping his palm with his fingers.  “He hates mages!  And magic!”

“And you’re a _Templar_!” she interrupted.

“And,” Carver pressed, “What if he got a child on you that turned out to have magic, sister?”

Ice ran down her spine and blossomed in her belly.  That was… no, it was…

“Go sit on a mushroom, little brother!” she shouted, before shoving him away and out of her tent, burying her face in her hands to hide the sudden tears that threatened to spill onto her cheeks.

_Damn_ Carver, she thought.  Damn him for bringing up something she had refused to think on herself.  Damn him for bringing up mages and magic and Fenris and the mess that her “love life” had become.  Fuck him to the void and back, and may he get a nasty rash from the Rose and his teeth fall out!

She had tried to stop them, but the tears fell anyhow.  She tried to cry quietly and was, at least, mostly successful in that endeavor.  Damn, Carver, for making her have another reason to keep Fenris at arm’s length.  It was for his own good, doubly over, now, but still…

Hawke wanted to be able to give in, some time.  To be able to accept what she wanted.  To not have to fight, just once.

* * *

Hawke was asleep when Fenris returned to the camp.  The walk had cooled his immediate anger, somewhat, but her being asleep made him feel guilty anew.  He should not have given in to Carver’s childish fighting.  He should have let the man hit at him, and then Hawke would have at least been a little less angry.  Now Fenris wanted to kick his ass all over again.

He brushed his feet off before settling on the bedroll, pulling the blanket up enough so that he was covered to his waist.  He would try to make it up to Marian tomorrow.  He would take her watch; he would care for the packhorse; he would put away and set up the tent.  Yes.  And let her relax a little bit.  She would enjoy that, he thought.  And he would apologize to her, again, for his actions.  Apologies never hurt.

And, most importantly, he would _not_ antagonize Carver.  He would be civil and polite and not knock his teeth in.

He turned to his side, facing Marian, and brushed a lock of her hair out of her face.  Her closed eyes looked shadowed, even in the darkness, and he got the impression she had been crying.  That impression strengthened when she sniffled slightly and moved in her sleep, stretching a hand out to him.  It was too dark to see her expression, but…

Damn Carver.  Whatever the man’s problem with Fenris, it could have been handled without dragging his own sister into it, pulling the tent down on top of her.  Blasted child, even if he was a full-grown man.

Tomorrow, he would go about making things right again and setting records straight with Carver.  If he didn’t know that Fenris was serious about his sister before, he would quickly learn that, so long as she still wanted him, Fenris was going to let nothing keep him from Marian again.

* * *

The following day, Fenris was perfectly prepared to spend time doting on Hawke.  As much as possible while traveling, at any rate.  They would be reaching a nearby village the next day and that meant finding an inn, hopefully, which in turn meant more privacy for the two of them, which, given how the previous nice almost ended, boded well for the next step in their relationship.

So, Fenris woke with high hopes for the day, only to find Hawke would barely look at him and only managed a dozen words while they were preparing to set out. 

Worse, she refused to ride with him.

“I know the poor horse needs a break from us riding double,” she told him, refusing to lift her eyes from her feet.  “I’ll ride with Anders.”

And before he could argue, Hawke was striding to the abomination, obviously discussing the plans.  It was hard to make out Anders through the film of red Fenris saw, but he knew smugness and the _mage_ all but radiated it.  He scowled as Hawke placed her hand on one of those ridiculously feathered paldrons and Anders smiled and patted her arm in a much-too-familiar way.

He felt a quick touch on his arm and looked over, surprised and angry, to see Varric there already shaking his head.

“Don’t do it, Elf,” Varric warned.

“Do _what_ , dwarf?” he growled, his brows drawing down to cause a thunderous appearance.

“Don’t hit Anders.  Or over-react.  Whatever’s going on with Hawke, it’s best that you lay low for a day or two.  Don’t force anything.  Keep being nice, don’t run away, don’t fight, and, well… basically do the opposite of what you were planning to do.”

“How do you know what I was planning?” he snapped, and Varric held up his hands.

“Please, you wound me.  Seven years of friendship and you think I don’t know you want to knock his teeth in?”  Varric grimaced and rolled his eyes.  “Just take my advice, okay?  I wouldn’t steer you wrong with her.”

That gave him a moment’s pause.  It was true that Varric had never given Fenris poor counsel before on matters relating to Hawke.  In other areas, Varric had pranked him, on occasion, but never with regards towards his relationships with Hawke, or even other members of their crew.  He had even helped Fenris pick out presents for her, on holidays and birthdays that required them.

“Perhaps you are right, dwarf,” he finally conceded.  “I will take your advice.”

Varric only nodded, as if the conclusion had never been in doubt.  “If you need any more advice, let me know,” he said, lightly, and then left to see to his horse.

So Fenris spent the day watching as Anders kept his arms around _his_ Marian, that smug look on his face.  He had to grind his teeth to stop himself from slugging the other man in the face several times, especially when Hawke had to move his arms away from her chest and turned around in the saddle to glare at him.  The abomination had simply laughed at her, and it was a supreme struggle for Fenris to not end him then and there.

The consolation was that Hawke sat by him at supper, even if she refused him taking her watch, or taking over any of her chores.  And she still saw to his Healing first; their short time in the saddle had done little to get any of them used to riding, and the Healing and Rejuvenation spells helped everyone continue to feel in top shape.  Fenris enjoyed the feel of her magic, cool and warm at the same time, a caress over his skin while she touched him with those soft fingers.  He still did not care for magic or mages, but he cared for Hawke, and her magic was such a part of her that this meant he had to accept her magic and its benefits if he was going to be with her.  Besides, she was useless with most types of offensive magic and an excellent Healer, better than Anders in certain respects, and Fenris firmly felt that Healing magic was one of the few kinds that was actually beneficial.

Watch was split into thirds, and each watch had a mage on it.  Hawke always volunteered for second watch, which was the most difficult one, because it meant breaking up sleep, at best.  Fenris always tried to get second watch with her, but rarely succeeded, and tonight was no exception.  He refused to take watch with the abomination, however, and accepted third watch with the blood mage.

That should have meant that he would be able to sleep next to her for a few hours, but instead she took her bedroll and set it up outside the tent.  When he made to join her, she pressed him to stay in the tent and get some good sleep, claiming to be too restless for him to want to sleep next to.

He did not miss the fact that the abomination had first watch, and was sitting close to Hawke when Fenris decided he could stay up with that situation no more.

The next day was better.  Much better.  Not only did Hawke ride with him, but she kissed his _ear_.  Thankfully, she was riding behind him, or else it would be another day of riding with a non-stop erection.  He was fairly certain that Hawke didn’t know about elven ear sensitivity, and that was not the time to discuss it.

They arrived fairly early at the village, and they found rooms and baths enough for everyone, along with hot food that was somewhat fresh and that none of them had to prepare or clean up after.  He was especially thankful for Hawke’s magic then; her fire heated up the large tubs of water much faster than heating it bucket by bucket would have been, and a hot soak mixed with the hot food, not-awful ale, Healing and Rejuvenation spells, and Fenris found himself passed out on the low, lumpy, straw-stuffed mattress before he could even contemplate the idea of any further wooing of his heart’s desire.

Truthfully, Hawke seemed as exhausted as he felt, and considering how quickly and deeply she fell asleep, Fenris was glad he had not tried to pursue anything further, although he had heard such activities were extremely relaxing.  Of course, that had come from Isabela, so he had to take it with a grain of salt.  This was supposed to be a sort of holiday for Hawke, after all, and she spent it keeping second watch and breaking up fights between himself and her brother.  He felt ashamed all over again; he shouldn’t have risen to Carver’s bait, even when he lashed out physically.  Hawke needed rest and peace, not squabbling and fighting.

The next week passed quickly, with little in the way of bandit attacks, and a lot in the way of boredom and a certain type of frustration.  Hawke tried getting more information from Tallis, trying to set up a plan for exactly what to do, but Tallis was extremely cryptic where she wasn’t vague.  Hawke was losing patience with the rogue; it was more obvious to Fenris, who paid special attention to her moods, anyway, but soon everyone was aware that Hawke was tired of the bullshit she was being fed.

“Listen, Tallis,” she finally snapped, about a day before they were set to arrive at Chateau Haine.  “I need to plan.  I need you to help me plan, and I need you to be straight with me about what you know.”  Her tone was _very_ irritated.

Tallis sighed theatrically and replied, “There’s not much to plan, Hawke.  We get in, we hunt a wyvern, we sneak off during the celebration, and break into the vault.  We take the Heart of the Many and then we leave the next day.  Piece of cake.”

Fenris felt her tense in his arms.  “A fine plan, but lacking in contingencies.”

“There is only so much that you can plan for,” Tallis countered.

“But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t plan for as much as possible,” Hawke argued.  “’Get in, do something, get out’ is hardly a winning plan,” she finished.

“So long as profit is involved, sounds fine to me,” Isabela cut in with a grin and a chuckle.

“Profit’s no good unless you’re alive and free to spend it, Rivaini,” Varric said.  “Hawke’s right; we need more to go on.”

“There are a lot of… contingencies…” Tallis said, finally, and slowly.  “We can’t make a better plan until we find out where our rooms are, the dinner schedule, a whole host of things!”

Hawke simply shook her head instead of wasting her breath further, causing fine, dark hair to tickle Fenris’s nose.  She mumbled something too low for even him to hear, although the tone was hardly complementary.  He pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head.

“I will let nothing happen to you,” he promised her in a quiet voice.

“Me?”  She sounded surprisingly amused.  “I’m more worried about something happening to you!”

“You are more important,” he assured her, his hands tightening on the horse’s reigns.  “I will let nothing happen, Marian.”

He felt her shiver slightly, and then she patted his hands.  “Maybe I’ll be the one to keep you safe instead.”  She huffed a laugh.  “At least I can do that much, right?”

“Then we will keep each other safe,” he told her.  She made a pleased sound and tightened her hands on his, relaxing against him slightly.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marian drinks. A little too much.

Fenris was painfully reminded of traveling with Danarius when Hawke and Company™ arrived at the Chateau, finally.  The pomp and circumstance that revolved around the Champion and her retinue –never mind the retainers that someone with actuals airs to put on might demand – was too much like when he was required to act the bodyguard to his former master.  It put him in a mood, one that even soft words and a gentle kiss on his cheek couldn’t pull him out of.  In fact, he irritated Hawke about it so thoroughly that when the Seneschal asked about sleeping arrangements, she put him in with Varric and the abomination and had Tallis rooming with herself!  She also allowed Carver to room with Isabela and Merrill, to much eye-rolling from the others and scandalous giggles and knowing winks and nudges from the staff.

To make matters worse, she refused to let him apologize, telling him to “cool his hot head with the boys” while she and Tallis freshened up in their shared rooms.  The look Tallis gave Hawke was downright predatory, and Hawke seemed oblivious to the direction of the woman’s thoughts.

“I can’t wait to get to know you better!” Tallis giggled, as they walked off, following a maid.

“I’ve been wanting some alone time with you, Tallis,” Hawke said in return, linking her arm through the elf’s arm.  Fenris stood rooted where he was, fists clenching, glowering at their retreating backs.

What did Hawke mean by _that_?!

* * *

It was too late in the day for lunch, and too early for when these Orlesians took their dinner, but the ballroom was laid out with repast for any of the guests who wished it, and they had already agreed on meeting there once everyone had refreshed in their rooms.  Fenris was the first to arrive, anxious to try to catch Hawke alone and apologize for being cross earlier, but an hour had passed and still no sign of Hawke.  The other guests giggled behind painted fans while pointedly not looking at him as he paced around the room until, finally, Fenris could stand no more waiting.  No Hawke and no Tallis and he would find where his woman was, _venhedis!_

A few words with servants in truly overdone livery ( _Orlesians_ , he thought, rolling his eyes, and then realized he had picked that up from Hawke) and within a quarter hour of leaving the ballroom, Fenris was in front of the door to the suite Hawke had been given.  He knocked furiously, then reminded himself to not take his frustrations out on the door.  Behind the thick wooden paneling, he could hear giggles and voices, and then:

“A moment!”  Hawke.

There was the sound of locks being undone and then the door cracked open enough for Hawke to stick her head out.  Her face was flushed and sweaty, damp locks of hair sticking to her forehead, and her pupils were dilated hugely in her eyes.  She grinned lopsidedly at him and squealed girlishly.

“Fenris!”

“Hawke, are you well?  You look—“ The door was shoved open and Fenris found himself with an armful of almost-naked, sweaty, giggly Hawke.

“FENRIS!” she shouted, holding his shoulders and bouncing up and down.  Fenris tried, vainly, to cover her from the eyes of a servant, who was passing by with an armload of clean towels.  “Fenris, the wine!”

He gently pushed her back into the room.  Through one door, he could see a large bed, upon which Tallis was passed out, nude.  He averted his gaze, but found his eyes settling on a bouncy, happy Hawke in her smalls.

_“Fasta vass_ , Hawke, how much wine did you drink?”

She covered her mouth and giggled before cupping his jaws affectionately.  “Tallis and I each had a half of a small bottle,” she announced, proudly.  “Maker, that stuff has a kick!”

Fenris pinched the bridge of his nose.  “Marian, what was the name of the wine?”

“A—a—a….very good wine!” she giggle-snorted, and then tried to capture his mouth with her own.

“Marian, was it ‘Aquae Lucidius’?” he asked, dreading the answer.

“It was blue!” she practically shouted, before going for his mouth again.

“Maker have mercy, Marian…”  Fenris rested his forehead against hers for a moment.  “Where is the bottle?”  It took several moments, but she finally located the bottle.  It was, indeed, Aquae Lucidius, a potently hallucinogenic liquor that was made from wyvern poison.

“You’re only supposed to drink small amounts of this at a time, Marian,” Fenris sighed.  In front of him, she was doing an odd sort of little dance that was doing nothing to cool the temperature of the room down.  “How many glasses did you have?”

“I had half, and Tallis had half!”

He eyed the empty bottle.  “Not half a glass.”

Hawke laughed as if it were the funniest thing she had ever heard.  “No, silly!  Half the bottle.  It’s small!”  She giggled and then winked lasciviously at him.  “Not like you.  Don’t think I don’t remember.”  Hawke trailed her fingers up his arm and brushed them over his ear; Fenris had to grab her hand before he could not contain himself.  This was _cheating!_   And he refused to take advantage of her in this state.  He reminded himself of that _several_ times in a row, while trying to ignore nearly naked and currently very willing Marian.  He had to resort to remembering the Anders-face-crotch episode from their camping trip back in August.

“Marian, my heart,” he said gently, leading her to the sofa that was closest to the hearth.  “I must speak with—Varric.  I must speak with Varric, but then I will return.  I will not be long.”  She took hold of his face with both hands and drew him into a sensual kiss that had him questioning his sanity.  Hawke slid her hands down his back further and further until they rested on his buttocks, and then she grinded her hips against him and Fenris _moaned_.  Oh, the Maker had a fine sense of humor, indeed.  He untangled his hands from her hair (when had _that_ happened?!) and gently pushed her down onto the sofa.

“Marian,” he said, sternly.  “Wait for me.  I will be back.”

“I’ll wait,” she replied, grinning broadly and winking at him.

It was a short run to the ballroom, where he had last seen Varric, and only a few moments to explain what the issue was to him and the abomination both.

“Andraste’s dimpled buttcheeks,” Varric said, loudly, palming his face with his hand.  “At least she’s not throwing up.”

“Not yet,” Anders said, a worried frown on his face.  “Are you sure you can handle this?  You don’t have any Healer training and your bedside manner…”

He growled and fisted his hands, to keep them from the abomination’s throat.  “And let you care for her when she’s like this?” he spat.  Varric put his hands up between the two men, keeping them apart.

“Sounds to me like Broody has everything covered, Blondie,” he said.  “And he’ll find you if he needs you.  Right, elf?”

“Then what of Tallis?  If he’s going to be Hawke’s handler, Tallis will need one, too.  I can be there for both women, if needed.”  Fenris shrugged uncomfortably; there was nothing he could say to counter that argument.

“I’ll babysit Junior and the girls,” Varric replied, clapping the abomination on the shoulder.  “They’re probably not going to want to eat, but don’t you two forget to.  Oh, and don’t forget the details, either; Hawke is going to laugh her ass off over these shenanigans.”

“I’m not telling you anything more,” Fenris snarled.  “Bad enough, to have the abomination— “

“I have a name, Fenris!”

“—there to see her acting like that, getting… _ideas_!”

“Easy, elf.  No one’s getting ideas except for you.”

* * *

“Fenris!” Isabela whined, trying to push past him.  She had a good hand on the elf, height-wise, and probably thirty pounds, to boot, but he was an impenetrable wall of “No Fun Here” that the pirate had no way of getting around.

“Isabela, no.”

“Isabela, yes!” came the delighted shriek behind him, and the woman in question rose up on her toes and tried to peer over his shoulder.  Fenris shoved the door closed a little more.

“Spoilsport!”  Isabela grumped at him.  Fenris was not moved by the petty name-calling.

“Isabela, please.  She is your friend.  She saved you from the Qunari.”  ‘Bela rolled her eyes, outwardly irritated but inwardly suddenly stabbed with guilt.

“Fine, fine.  But you owe me, Fenris.”  He growled and she allowed him to slam the door shut home.

Ah, well.  Carver and Merrill would be much more fun, anyway.

* * *

“If you get naked, I’ll be good.  I’ll be _very_ good.”

“No, Marian.”                                                                                                      

“Can I kiss you again, then?”

A long-suffering sigh, then moist noises and a deep, masculine groan.

“Marian, _hands_.”

“They are, aren’t they?”

“Marian.”  A slightly higher-pitched “Marian!” following.

“Fennnnrissssss.”  More soft, wet noises.

“ _Fasta vass,_ woman, will you not sleep?”

“Only with you.”  Teasing, sing-song.  “Fenris.  _Touch me_.”  More moist sounds, another long-suffering sigh, and a deep moan.

“Marian,” nearly a whine.  “Marian, go to sleep!”

A few moments pass.

Finally: “ _Venhedis!  Fasta vass!”_

* * *

Hakwe sat up, clutching her head.  Her mouth had felt extremely dry, but suddenly flooded with saliva and she managed to lean over the bed in time to vomit off of it onto the carpeting.

She felt the bed dip beside her, and hands hold back her hair as she vomited up everything she had ever eaten.  Maker, that was _Fenris_.  Why did he always have to be there when she vomited?  Why couldn’t she have _some_ dignity spared?  Just a little bit?

“Fenris,” she managed, finally.

“Marian,” he replied, in a voice somewhat thick from sleep.

“Could you… get me some water?”

A moment later, a cool glass half-filled with liquid was placed in her hand and she sipped it cautiously, at first, then pressed it to her forehead.

Flashes of the previous day came to her, and she felt just a bit more like crawling into a hole and dying.

“Better?”  His voice was kind, and gentle, even through the thickness of too little sleep.  She made an affirmative noise and closed her eyes, sighing softly to herself and trying to push away the rising nausea.

“Maker,” she moaned, mainly for her own benefit, then winced at how loudly she sounded in her own ears.  “Maker,” she said again, a faint whisper this time.

“You drank half a bottle of Aquae Lucidius,” Fenris told her, in his deep, chocolate-on-gravel rumble.  He almost sounded amused, the bastard.  “It is a wine made from wyvern poison and known for its hallucinogenic properties.”

“Maker, like Merrill’s mushrooms.”

“Just so.”

“And half a bottle is… a lot?”

“I take it you do not remember most of the night?”

“Some of it.”  She turned an alarming shade of ashen, and then faintly a sheen of green.  “Probably all of the worst parts.  Maker’s breath, Fen, I’m sorry.”

“I normally wouldn’t complain, but as this was not planned, I refused to take advantage of you in such a state.”

“Always the gentleman,” she said, then stretched out on the cool sheets with the nearly empty glass held out over the floor.

“Not always,” Fenris replied.  His voice sounded strained and she winced to think of the discomfort she had caused him last night.

“Oh Fenris, I _am_ sorry.  Thank you for taking care of me, though.  It was very sweet.”

“Anything for you, Marian.”  His hand rested on her upper back and made small circles.  “Although we should probably discuss it ahead of time if you wish to do something like that again.”  She certainly didn’t miss the amused note in his tone.

“Well, it probably won’t happen again, but I’ll let you know before it does.”  Now it was his turn to respond with a sound, but Hawke was unable to interpret this one.  It almost seemed disappointed.

“I suppose,” she ventured slowly, “that we have a hunt today.  And I missed meeting Duke Prosper, so I’ll have to arrange that, as well?”

“I’m certain the Duke will understand if you wish another day of rest.  From what I’ve gathered, the wyvern hunts are pretty much daily around here, during the season,” Fenris said, slowly.  He was lying on his back now, apparently perfectly at ease with the idea of a lazy day that did not involve hunting wyverns for sport.

“The sooner we get this hunt over with, the sooner we can get this jewel and be quit of this place,” Hawke told him.

His voice held a frown.  “I thought part of the reason you agreed to this was for the chance at a vacation for us.  Is my company so loathsome?”

She groaned and dropped the glass onto the carpet so she could pull a pillow over her head.

“Marian?”  Silence.  “Marian?  Is my company truly such a burden to you?”

“ _No_ , Fenris,” she snapped, throwing the pillow across the room and half-falling out of bed, missing the vomit by inches.  “Maker, where are my clothes.  No, Fenris, I love having you around.  But this is a job, not a vacation.”  She managed to find her leggings on one side of the room and her underrobe on the other.

“I thought… never mind.  _Fasta vass,_ Marian.”  She caught sight of him getting out of the bed in her peripheral vision.  He was mostly undressed, as well.  “I will meet you for the hunt later,” he growled, yanking his tunic over his head roughly and stalking out of the room once he was dressed appropriately, slamming the bedroom door shut with a loud banging sound.

Maker, what had she said _this_ time?


	20. Chapter Twenty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and Company™ go a-hunting.

The door to his shared quarters banged open loudly and Fenris virtually snarled as he pushed it back from the ricochet.

“Broody,” Varric complained from underneath his pillow.  “You need to get laid.  You can’t tell me Hawke wasn’t willing last night.”

“My affairs are none of yours, dwarf.”  He began pulling off his things from yesterday and washing up in the nearly-chilled wash water on the vanity.

“They are when you’re this pissy,” Varric muttered.  In a louder voice, he added, “How’s she feeling today?”

“Ready to get to this hunt and be quit of this place,” he replied, in between scrubbing his teeth.

“I thought part of the reason she accepted this job was to have some pseudo-romantic holiday with you,” Varric said, sounding confused.  “What’d you do to piss her off?”

“I don’t know, Varric.”  He tried to not sound angry or exasperated.  It wasn’t Varric’s fault that he didn’t know how to talk to his… his… his Marian.  Varric had done nothing but try to help Fenris in his pursuit of her, in fact: giving suggestions and advice, helping to set up private times to be with her.  Whatever the issue…  “I thought… that Hawke forgave me.  Accepted me.  Perhaps I misunderstood her, Varric.”

Varric muttered something about it being too early in the morning for chats like this, but sat on the side of the bed and started combing out his chest hair.  “Elf, have you tried _talking_ to her about your issues?  Not talking around them, or assuming she knows what you’re talking about, or even that there’s anything wrong.  Sit her down and say, ‘Hawke, I love you, let’s have sex for days and make pretty little black-haired babies together!’  Hawke is a brilliant woman, but she’s shy about some things, Fenris.  You need to just come right out and say it.”

Fenris came just short of dismissing the advice out of hand.  “I have no idea how to even broach such a subject,” he started, when Anders stalked in and smacked him in the back of the head, their Universal Group Signal that the person, as Hawke put it, “done fucked up.”  Even with acknowledging the UGS, however, his brands flared and the tattoos glowed a furious blue-white as he grabbed for the mage, deciding that today was the day.  Hawke was already pissed enough at him, for whatever reason.  Might as well add the mage’s death to it.

“You bloody idiot.  After all that last night –and don’t think I didn’t hear her!—you leave her _crying_ today?  And still vomiting?  Maker, if she looked at me with half of the affection she looked at you, she’d never cry again.  I’d drown the world in blood to make it so, but _you’re_ the reason—“

“ **Shut up, mage**!” Fenris bellowed, flinging the pitcher of water at Anders.  It hit an invisible wall and clattered to the floor, shattering.

“Whoa, whoa, hold it fellas….”

“I have no idea what she even sees in you.  You hate everything that she is, that makes her beautiful and special!”  Anders jumped back away from Fenris, narrowly escaping his grasp and continuing his tirade.  “You leave her in limbo for three years.  Three years!  If I were in your position, I’d have married her by now, at the very least!”

“You will cease this, abomination, now!”

“No, I won’t!  It’s about time someone made you wake up and see the beautiful creature you’ve been holding back and hurting!”

“Guys!” Varric physically inserted himself between the two of them, keeping them apart.  “Knock it off.  Turn the lights off, Broody, and save the preaching for the manifesto, Blondie.”  Both men tried to object, but Varric held his arms out to keep them separate.  “I said that’s enough, fellas.”  He glared from one man to the other.  “Do you really think either of you win points with her by fighting?  Not much pisses her off _more_ than your bickering.”

The bubbling anger in him subsided quickly, smothered by guilt.  Varric was right.  Suddenly, a stubby finger was stabbed at his chest.

“So you, stop running away from her, and sit her down and _talk_ to the woman.  Make time.  I know you could, if you wanted to.  And _you_ ,” he said, turning to Anders and stabbing him in the chest with that same stubby finger next.  “For whatever reason, Hawke chose the elf over you.  Stop trying to break them up.  When Anders looked like he was going to protest, Varric stabbed him again.  “ _Stop it_ , Blondie, or so help me, you’ll get reacquainted with Bianca.”

Anders balled his fists, but took a step back and away from Fenris; Fenris held his ground, but relaxed his stance.  “She was… crying…”

“Because of _you_.”  Accusation and venom.

“Go on, Broody,” Varric urged.

 Fenris wondered, as he wandered through the hall, why this was so complicated for him.  Why could he not simply know what to do, and just stop hurting Hawke?  Was this some sort of punishment for that first time, when he so stupidly walked away from her, or was he naturally bad at relationships?   Perhaps it was best that his forgotten memories stayed forgotten; they might only reveal a string of poorly-handled lovers, on his part, and make him feel even more like a fool.

He expected Hawke to still be recovering, along with Tallis, in her suite, but when he arrived, a busy-seeming maid was stripping the bedclothes and simply shook her head when he asked if she knew where the women went.  A quick stop by the rooms Carver, Merrill, and Isabela were sharing let him know that Tallis and Hawke had already gone to prepare for the hunt, and that everyone was to meet them in the hunting courtyard.  He cursed to himself, and headed back to his own shared room for weapons and armor.  Or rather, the rest of his armor; a Fenris and all of his armor weren’t soon parted.

When he finally found Hawke, she was dressed for fighting, staff through the holster on her back, and was being introduced to this Duke Prosper.  The man was wearing this… this… for lack of a better term, a “hat.”  And _flouncing_.  And _flirting_ with _his_ Hawke, and! And! Hawke was _flirting_ back!  She touched the man’s (for lack of a better word) hat and _giggled_ at him, fluttering her eyelashes!

Fenris saw red.

Varric grabbed his forearm before he could kill the Duke.

“Down, elf,” he murmured, smiling nonchalantly.  “We’re not here to move the Orlesian nobility along.”

“But… Hawke….”

“Hawke is a big girl, elf.  I’m going to assume she knows what she’s doing, or else she wouldn’t be doing it.”

“Varric…” he wanted to wince at how heartbroken he sounded to his own ears.

“And I see you’ve brought some manservants already armed?” the Duke asked, rather loudly, gesturing at Fenris and Varric.

“Yes, Your Grace.  And might I introduce my brother, Carver Hawke.  He is currently serving at the Circle of Magi in Kirkwall,” Hawke said.

“It is a pleasure to have you here, Ser Hawke, Champion,” Prosper told them, giving a slight half-bow.  “Now you will have to excuse me.  The hunt waits for no man.  Or woman, as the case may be.”  Another little half-bow, and they were left alone in the courtyard.

Before he got a chance to pull her aside, however, Tallis was speaking to Hawke, voice pitched low but with an expression flirty enough to make him growl.  Orlais was a bad idea.  A horrible idea.  He was going to lose Hawke, all because he said stupid, ill-timed things and made her cry and, Maker, he didn’t want to lose Hawke again, he _loved_ Hawke, he _needed_ her, he—

“Everyone ready?” Hawke addressed them all, brightly.  “Apparently, we have to hunt and kill a wyvern first.   Can’t say I’m exactly overjoyed by this turn of events, but a job’s a job, right?”

“Hunt _and_ _kill_ a wyvern?  Sister, you’ve gone completely mad.  Aren’t those things related to dragons?”

“Apparently so,” Tallis said, looking much more excited than Hawke.  “We’re going to have to gather things to bait one out, I suspect.”

“Well, hunting things and killing them does seem like quite the pastime of mine,” Hawke quipped.  “Not the first time I’ve killed a dragon-like creature.  Or an actual dragon, for that matter.”

“I feel kind of sorry for it, actually,” Merrill said, mournfully.  “It just wants to live its life, without bothering anyone, out here in the wild.

“Wyvern numbers need to be kept down, otherwise they breed to quickly,” Tallis told her, checking the harnesses of her daggers.

“Elves, too,” Fenris said.  “We’re plucky that way.”  Every eye turned to him and most everyone looked shocked at what he had said.  _Don’t blush, don’t blush, don’t blush…._

“Well, wyverns breed quickly and dangerously enough to require annual hunts for culling, and so far, there aren’t any annual elf hunts yet…” Tallis said, confused.

Hawke shot Fenris a cheeky grin and a wink.  “Don’t worry, Fenris.  Nobody hunts elves on my watch.”  Her words and tone heated him from head to toe and he _knew_ he was blushing when Varric snickered.  It took every last bit of his self-control to not push her up against a tree and have his way with her right then and there, damn the observers, to show how _plucky_ elves could be.

She turned to the rest of them, keeping that cheeky, self-satisfied grin on her face.  “Well, team?  What are we waiting for?  Let’s go kill a wyvern and take its stuff!”

* * *

“Hawke, I don’t think you should touch the creepy-looking, ancient altar.”

“Why not?  Maybe there’s treasure there!”

“Because it’s creepy-looking and ancient!”

“You people have no sense of adventure.”

A moment later, and some ghastly shrieking, and then:

“I told you that you shouldn’t touch it!”

“That’s what she said.”

“ _Fasta vass_ , is that a horror?”

“I _am_ good at summoning those, aren’t I?”

“Would you –on your left!  Your other left!”

“Don’t blame me, I know my left and my right!”

“You can’t get mad at him, he didn’t go to Chantry School!”

“Oh Hawke, be careful of those—Hawke!”

More ghastly shrieking.

“Someone should tell this guy he’s wearing last year’s tattered robes.”

“Maybe the last _age’s_ robes?”

“I blame you, Hawke!”

“Is there no end to these… these… what _are_ they?”

“Cultists?”

“ _Venhedis!_ ”

“Your right.  No, the other right!”

“I think that bastard scratched Bianca!”

“Need… mana….”

“Maker’s breath, someone get her some lyrium!”

“Andraste’s knickerweasels!”

“Hawke?”

“Hawke?!”

Thump, bump, skinned knee.  Sword through the Sky Horror.  And then:

“Hawke?”

“Yes, Fenris?”

“No more touching ancient, creepy-looking altars.”

“No more today, I promise.”

“No, no more ever.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“In the same place as your sense of self preservation.”

“Fenris?”

“Hawke?”  A smacking, smooching sound and a chorus of “oooohs.”

“Go loot the bodies, Fenris.”

“I… in a moment, Hawke.”

“Is that a greatsword in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

“It is your extra lyrium, Hawke.”

A chorus of disappointed “awwwws.”

“But that’s his sword right there, he just used it for all that good swording!”

“She meant his hard on, kitten.”

“Oh.  Does he often get one from killing things?”

“ _Fasta vass!_ ”

“No, mainly from laying half on top of Hawke and being kissed by her.”

“I wish she’d kiss me.”  A wistful sigh.

“Me, too, kitten.”

“And me.”

“Probably me, too.”

“Maker, you lot are pathetic.  That’s my sister!”

“She’s hotter than you are.”

“ _Vishante kaffas.  Fasta vass,_ will you all shut up about kissing Hawke?!”

“No.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Yes, please shut up about kissing her.”

Faintly, “Does anybody need Healing?”

* * *

“Do dragons and wyverns even mix?” Tallis asked Hawke, all wide-eyed innocence.  They had just killed a handful of dragonlings and two older dragons and were now standing around and admiring their handiwork.

“I haven’t found much that _did_ mix with dragons,” Hawke answered, honestly.  “Although the name of the age is appropriate; we even fought one in the Deep Roads.”

“Maybe we can drag one of these along as bait,” Carver suggested, earning him seven pairs of appraising eyes turned to his direction.  He scowled fiercely and crossed his arms over his breastplate.  “What?  Why are you all looking at me like that?  I’m not an idiot!”

“Anybody got a large sack?”  Varric asked.

“That’s what she said,” Isabela quipped.  There was a moment of quiet reflection, mainly on lost dignity.

“We have to give her that one,” Hawke said eventually, and there was a chorus of agreement.

“I’ve got a bag,” Merrill said, kneeling down and going through her pack.  “it’s not very large, but Carver can cut up some of the pieces and put them in there.”

“Hey, I found so gold!” Isabela crowed, cheerfully.

“Gold?  On a dragon?”  What, do they have pockets?  The Maker must surely have a sense of humor, then; dragons get pockets and women do not,” Hawke replied.

“That’s because the Maker is a man, sweet thing,” Isabela said, “evenly” distributing the booty.  Merrill had found the elusive bag and Carver was busy swording up the dragonling, obviously unable to decide which were the choicest bits to piss off a wyvern.

“So, Hawke,” Tallis said, so nonchalantly that seven pairs of eyes immediately turned to her.  To her credit, Tallis took the scrutiny in stride.  “Are you married?”

Hawke laughed and started dusting her armor off.  “Is that a proposal?” She sounded thoroughly amused.

“Oh, just wondering if there’s a man behind the Champion throne,” Tallis replied, in a remarkably flirty tone.  Six pairs of eyes followed the back and forth of the conversation.

“A fine question,” Fenris said, surprising everyone with a third contender for the banter.  Seven pairs of eyes turned to him with various of amused (Varric, Isabela) and bemused (Hawke, Tallis, Merrill) and hostile (Carver, Anders.)

“Perhaps we should start moving again,” Hawke suggested, when the silence had stretched on too long.

“Good idea,” Tallis said, somewhat uncomfortably.  “We can’t really get to the jewel while we’re hunting, after all.”


End file.
